





























4 


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The Saint of the Speedway 

Ridgwell Cullum 






The Saint 
of 

The Speedway 

by 

Ridgwell Cullum 


New ^Er York 
George H. Doran Company 


t TT 




Copyright, 192+, 

By George H. Doran Company 




The Saint of the Speedway 
—B— 

Printed in the United States of America 

JUL 23 '24 

©CW801248 



VVO •V' 


Foreword 


TF the reader will cast a thought back to the 
classic sea mystery of the Marie Celeste, it will 
be clear how much this book owes its inception to 
the extraordinary derelict, the mystery of which 
remains unsolved to this day. But the author dis¬ 
claims any attempt in the following pages to offer a 
solution of the mystery and has only used certain 
of the features surrounding the condition of the 
Marie Celeste at the time she was found abandoned 
in mid-ocean for the purposes of his story-narrative. 


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Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Adventurers.n 

II The Headland ...... 23 

III In Beacon Glory.40 

IV The Great Disaster.53 

V Eight Months Later—On the Lias River . 68 

VI A Bunch of Humanity ..... 82 

VII The Speedway .... . 94 

VIII The Man from Lias River .... 104 

IX The Aurora Clan.121 

X The Haunt of the Clansmen . . . .134 

XI The Wreck at the River Mouth . . .142 

XII The Limpet of Boston.156 

XIII The “Come-back”.169 

XIV In the Sunshine.179 

XV The Man from the Hills . . . .196 

XVI The Lazaret.209 

XVII Links in a Chain.225 

XVIII McLagan Achieves an End .... 243 

XIX McLagan Returns from the Hills . . 256 

XX The Last of the Moving Shadow . . . 276 

XXI Julian Caspar at Bay.289 

XXII The Quitting. 3 11 

XXIII The Passing of the “Chief-Light” . . 322 

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The Saint of 
the Speedway 


CHAPTER I 

The Adventurers 

I T was a time of tense emotion. Each was a-surge 
with an almost uncontrollable excitement as the two 
men moved up the whole length of the riffled sluice. 
Neither uttered one single word. But they moved 
slowly on either side of the long, primitive, box-like 
construction, keeping pace, each with the other, as 
though in a mutual desire that such fortune as was 
theirs should be witnessed together, as though neither 
had courage to face alone the possibilities of this their 
first serious “washing.” 

At each riffle the men paused. The more emotional 
of the two, Len Stern, thrust out a hand and stirred 
the deposit lying there. And at each stirring the same 
result was revealed. The riffles were filled with de¬ 
posit. On the top was a spread of lighter soil, with 
here and there a dull yellow protrusion thrusting above 
it. But under this lay a solid thickness of pure al¬ 
luvial gold in dust and smaller nuggets. From the top 
end of the sluice-box to the mouth which disgorged 
the red soil upon the miniature mountain of tailings 

n 


12 The Saint of the Speedway 


below it, it was the same. There was not one single 
riffle that was not laden to its capacity with the precious 
metal. 

They came to a halt at the head of the box. Len 
Stern stood for a moment gazing down its narrow 
channel. But Jim Carver was disinclined for any 
dreaming. Stolid, practical, for all the emotion of 
those amazing moments, he climbed up the light tres¬ 
tle work and shut off the water stream which had 
supplied the washing. Then he dropped again to the 
ground and waited. 

The stream of water fell away, and instantly the 
torrid heat of the sun began to dry up the woodwork. 
And as his gaze passed down over the succession of 
riffles the unshining yellow of their precious burden 
suggested a golden pathway the whole length of the 
sluice. 

“It makes you feel good, Len,” he said quietly, for 
all the burning excitement in his big blue eyes. 

The other nodded as though the thing he were con¬ 
templating had left him speechless. 

Jim Carver eyed him shrewdly. Then he glanced 
up at the blazing tropical sky. He gazed down at the 
slow-moving river, meandering on between jungle- 
grown banks on its way to the bay, less than five miles 
distant. Finally he bestirred himself. 

“We best clean this wash up, Len,” he said. “We 
best clean it up an’ take it right back to camp. It’s 
feed time.” 

He started to work at the top riffle, and Len Stern 
came back to realities. 

“Sure,” he agreed. And at once joined in the work. 
“Say, Jim, do you get it?” he cried, glancing quickly 
at the mountain of pay dirt they had spent months 



The Adventurers 


13 


in accumulating, standing ready for washing. “We 
guessed to wash a ton. Maybe it was, more or less. 
Ther’s not ounces in these riffles—no, ther’s—ther’s 
pounds!” 

Jim nodded as he laboured. 

“It’s the biggest ‘strike’ ever made in the world,” he 
admitted in a tone that might well have been taken for 
one of grudging. 

It was the northwest coast of Australia, the coast of 
that almost unexplored region which is one of the few 
remote territories of the world still retaining its fabu¬ 
lous atmosphere of romance. 

It was on the shores of a wide, shallow bay where a 
small river abruptly opened out its land arms in wel¬ 
come to the tropical ocean. Sun-scorched, fleshy vege¬ 
tation grew densely almost to the water’s edge, keep¬ 
ing dank and fever-laden the suffocating atmosphere 
within its widespread bosom. Yet only was it this 
merciful shade that made life endurable to sensitive 
human creatures. 

The sun was at its zenith, a furious disc of molten 
heat in a brazen sky. The sea at the river mouth lay 
dead flat under its burning rays, except for the ripple 
where some huge submarine creature disturbed its 
surface. Not a breath of air was stirring to relieve 
the suffocating atmosphere. 

The two men were lounging in the shade of the 
wattle walls of their reed-thatched shelter. It was 
built amidst a cluster of dense-growing trees, and the 
site looked out over the brilliant bay. They had long 
since eaten, and were now awaiting the cooling of the 
day before returning to their labours. 

They were youthful adventurers, foreigners to the 


14 The Saint of the Speedway 

country in which they found themselves. They were 
northerners, far-northerners, from the great snow- 
crowned hills of Alaska. They had set out on their 
adventure as a result of listening to the flimsiest, most 
fanciful yarn that ever a half-vagrant Chinaman had 
dispensed out of the remote cells of his drug-laden 
imagination. And as a result, that day, after two- 
and-a-half years of marooning on a coast peopled only 
by none too friendly blacks, and in the heart of a 
jungle alive with every bug and beast and reptile of 
a pestilential nature, they had, at long last, proved 
beyond every question of doubt that Charlie Wun Lee 
had, for once in his life, fallen a victim to sheer 
veracity. 

For all its usually incredible source, the story, which 
had set these men wandering in the world’s remote 
places, had had a curious ring of reality in it. Charlie 
Wun Lee was a queer, reasonably honest, far-travelled 
old Chinaman who dispensed ham and eggs to belated 
travellers in a squalid frame house in their home town 
of Beacon Glory, hidden away in the hill country of 
Alaska. And his story had been inspired by sheer 
friendliness for two men who found themselves in a 
position where the outlook for livelihood was com¬ 
pletely threatening. 

He had told them he knew where there was more 
gold than the world had ever seen before, and both 
being gold men their appetites had been at once 
whetted. 

Briefly, his story was that he had been shipwrecked 
when he was cook on an Australian coasting vessel. 
The ship went to pieces, but he and six others reached 
land after terrible privations. All they knew about 
their whereabouts was that it was the coast of Aus- 


The Adventurers 


15 


tralia somewhere on the northwest of the continent. 
It was a country of unbearable heat and fever-haunted 
jungle. They were marooned on this coast for more 
than a year, keeping body and soul together with such 
food as they could collect from the sea and the forest. 
Fortunately, they had little need for clothing, for they 
discovered not a living soul, and no indication, even, of 
the blacks whom they knew peopled these regions of 
the country. But during that long, desperate year one 
by one his white companions had died off, victims of 
a subtle jungle fever that killed them slowly and pain¬ 
fully, until only he and one other were left alive. This 
stealing death frightened him. The dank jungle be¬ 
came a place of dread. So he and his last remaining 
companion took to the river and sought to reach the 
hills out of which it sprang. 

But they never reached the hills. No. The river 
claimed them. They forgot their fears. They forgot 
even their contemplated destination. In his own 
graphic fashion he told them the river was alive with 
gold. Gold looked up at them out of the pay dirt 
which composed its bed throughout its whole course. 
Oh, yes. They tried it out with such means as they 
had to their hands. But they only collected nuggets 
of reasonable size and troubled nothing with “dust.” 
They collected a large quantity and secreted them, and 
it was this store that ultimately started him on the way 
to the prosperity he now enjoyed. 

After this he endeavoured to study the coast line 
with a view to making a chart at such time as he might 
be rescued, for he had never given up the hope that 
they would ultimately be rescued. And sure enough 
they were. A storm-driven coasting vessel ran into the 
mouth of the river for shelter. 


16 The Saint of the Speedway 

They were taken on board and clothed. But they 
kept their secret of the gold, determined, should op¬ 
portunity ever offer, to come again and work it. On 
the plea of desiring to know the position of the terri¬ 
tory which had been so disastrous to them, the skipper 
of the boat was induced to give them the exact bear¬ 
ings of the river mouth, and later, Charlie Wun Lee 
inscribed it on his rough chart which he produced in 
corroboration of his story. He also produced for his 
audience a couple of nuggets of gold which he de¬ 
clared he had kept as a souvenir ever since. 

But he shook his head sadly over them when he told 
how opportunity never came of returning to collect the 
gold awaiting him. His companion died on the way 
to Sydney, a victim of the jungle fever, the germs of 
which had contrived to impregnate him. And he— 
well, other things came his way and he did not fancy 
facing the hateful coast alone. Besides, he did very 
well with the laundry he started in Sydney until he 
got burnt out, and finally migrated to Alaska. No, he 
assured them, he would rather dispense ham and eggs 
at two dollars a time in Beacon Glory than go back 
for that gold. Besides, his little gambling parlour at 
the back of his restaurant was not so bad a gold 
mine. 

Well, anyhow, there it was. It was true what he had 
told them. Every word of it. And if they liked they 
could have the chart as a present. And when they 
came back with all the gold they needed, if the jungle 
fever didn’t get hold of them and they felt like making 
him a present in return, well, he would very gladly 
receive it. But, whether they chose to go after it or 
not, he wanted them to know that the thing he had 
told them was no fairy story, but the real truth, which 


The Adventurers 17 

was a wholly inadequate illustration of the reality of 
wealth he had seen there. 

Now they knew the real extent of the debt they owed 
to the friendly little dispenser of ham and eggs. But 
they also knew now, after the fierce excitement of 
witnessing the result of the first real washing had sub¬ 
sided, the immensities of the proposition confronting 
them. As yet neither had uttered a word of doubt or 
anxiety. But the thought of the potentialities of the 
situation was looming heavily. 

Jim Carver’s blue eyes were turned upon the sunlit 
bay. He was deeply engrossed, not in the wonders of 
the tropical scene set out before him, but in a train of 
teeming thought. His pipe was his only real comfort 
on this intolerable coast, and he was enjoying it to the 
uttermost at the moment. Len Stern’s dark eyes were 
upon the small mountain of raw gold heaped on an 
outspread flour sack on the sun-baked ground in front 
of him, which represented the result of their first 
“clean-up.” Whatever worries lay back of his mind 
his mercurial temperament refused to be robbed of one 
moment of the delight which this tangible result of 
their labours afforded. 

“Man, I feel I just want to holler!” he cried in a 
sudden outburst, breaking up the silence which was so 
much their habit. “Say, I just can’t get a grip on the 
nature of a boy who sits around doping out ham an’ 
eggs with the knowledge of a thing like this back of 
his mind. He’s all sorts of a sheer damn fool-” 

“Is he?” 

Jim had removed his pipe. He had turned his big, 
thoughtful eyes on the man contemplating the heaped 
treasure. Len was gazing at him, his smile of delight 
completely passed from his dark face. 



18 The Saint of the Speedway 

They were both big creatures. Broad, and enor¬ 
mously muscular, a picture of virile capacity and latent 
human energy. Jim’s eyes were frankly wide and blue 
as the distant sea, set in a face whose skin lent itself to 
a deep, florid sunburn. Len was dark-eyed and dark- 
skinned. He was burned to the mahogany of a nig¬ 
ger. Both were clad in barely sufficient clothing to 
meet the demands of decency. 

For a moment Len stared at his companion. Then 
his smile slowly returned. 

“Say, Jim, boy, ain’t ther’ a darn thing in all this 
to set you crazy to shout?” He shook his head. “It’s 
no sort of use. Your head’s always ready to shelter 
every old bogey it can collect. Two an’ a bit years of 
hell! That’s what it’s been. The folks guessed we 
were bug. The yarn of a ham-slingin’ Chink. A river 
of gold! An’ I guess we came nigh breakin’ our folks 
for outfit. Well, it’s ours. All of it. An’ I guess we 
can pay our folk a hundred times over. It’s a strike 
to unship the world’s financial balance. Psha! It’s 
so big-” 

“That’s the trouble, Len. It’s too big.” 

Len flung his head back in a boisterous laugh. 

“Too big?” he cried scornfully. “It just couldn’t 
be!” 

“It could. It is.” 

Jim’s unyielding tone promptly brought the other to 
seriousness. 

“How?”' he asked soberly. “Maybe Pve got some 
of your notion. But let’s talk it out.” 

Jim knocked out his pipe and refilled it. He lit it 
thoughtfully. Then he turned smilingly to his friend. 

“Say, I’m as crazy for this thing as you, boy,” he 
said in his quiet way. “But I don’t figger to let it 



The Adventurers 


19 


snow my senses under. You’re right. It’s been two 
years an’ more of hell gettin’ it, and we want it all, after 
that. But I seem to see something of what was back 
of Charlie’s mind quittin’ the game an’ never returning 
to it. Get a look down there.” He pointed at a rough 
sheltered landing with a tubby, cutter-rigged fishing 
smack lying moored there. ‘That’s our link with the 
world outside. An’ we got to get out not pounds, but 
tons of metal if I’m a judge. We got to market it 
an’ keep it quiet, or we’ll have the Australian Govern¬ 
ment jumping in on us, to say nothing of all the rest 
of the world.” He shook his head. “How’s it to be 
done? It can’t.” 

“But it can. It must!” 

Len’s whole manner had undergone a complete trans¬ 
formation. All the excited delight had passed out of 
his eyes. They had suddenly become hard, and shrewd, 
and full of keen resolution. The thought of failure 
with the prize in their hands had stirred him to a feel¬ 
ing like that of a mother who sees her offspring about 
to be snatched from her arms. He was ready to fight 
with the last breath of life for this thing he so dearly 
coveted. 

“Here, you can’t tell me a thing I haven’t thought, 
Jim,” he cried. “All this stuff’s been in my brain tank 
ever since we bought that barge of ours down in 
Perth. I’d got it all then. An’ I planned it all before 
we beat it up the coast in that old coaster, with our 
craft on a tow-line. You’re right. It’s got to be a se¬ 
cret. If we shout we’ll lose half the game. Maybe 
we’ll lose it all. We’re not going to shout. No. I 
best tell you, an’ we’ll sort out the metal from the tail¬ 
ings. You’ve a cautious head and a clear brain. 
Maybe you’ll see any weak spot lying around.” 


20 The Saint of the Speedway 

Jim nodded in ready agreement. He had achieved 
his purpose. Len was down to hard facts. 

“This is the thing I got planned,” Len went on, 
dipping his hands into the pile of gold and letting it 
sift back between his hard-worn fingers. “We’ve got 
to get a third feller into our game—on commission. 
We got to think wide and act wide. We got to play 
a red-hot game, an’ play it good. Ther’s got to be no 
weakening, an’ if any feller we work with plays the 
skunk he’s got to get his med’cine short. You get 
that?” 

Jim made no reply, but the look in his eyes was suf¬ 
ficient. 

“Well, here it is,” Len went on quickly. “If we dope 
this stuff out free we’ll break the market, and set every 
news-sheet shouting from one end of the world to the 
other. And the folks’ll jump in an’ shut us down. 
We’re sort of in the position of the feller who can 
transmute base metal. No. When we’ve a big enough 
bunch of stuff out I’m going to take a big trip down 
to Perth. I’m going to get a guy with a tramp ship, 
a windjammer for preference. I’m going to fix up 
with him; he’ll get a handsome commission on our 
trade of gold, and I’m going to bring him along up 
and have him stand off down the coast a few miles, 
an’ then, with this old barge of ours, I’ll come along 
and pick up all we got an’ haul it back aboard of his 
ship. Then you’re going right along with him and the 
stuff, and you’re going to travel from port to port and 
dispose of it for credit at such banks as will trade in 
smallish parcels. And meanwhile, I’ll stop right here 
on this coast an’ get stuff out ready for when you come 
back. Then I’ll take a trip, an’ you’ll stop around. An’ 
when we’ve sold all we need we’ll—quit. It’s the only 


The Adventurers 


21 


way, Jim. We got to play the smugglin’ game, an’ play 
it good. We got to take chances. Mighty big chances! 
I got to trust you, an’ you got to trust me, an’ we got 
to trust that skipper by makin’ it worth his while an’ 
keeping a gun pushed ready. Ther’s got to be no 
weakening. It’s the only way I can see to put our 
play through. Otherwise, our gold ain’t worth hell 
room to us. Do you see it? Are you on? I want 
you to make that first trip because you got folks need¬ 
ing you worse than any one needs me. That’s one 
reason. The other is I want you to feel I’m putting 
right into your hands my share, and I’m not worrying 
a thing because that’s so. See? We know each other. 
We’re on the square. An’ the thing I want from you 
is to keep the commission guy on the same angle. 
Well?” 

“It’s the sort o’ thing I had in mind, Len, only I 
hadn’t got it clear like you.” 

Jim knocked out his pipe and stood up stretching 
himself, while he gazed out over the flat calm of the 
bay. 

“It goes. Sure it does,” he said readily. “An’ I’m 
glad for that thought that made you have me make the 
first trip. It’s kind of generous, Len. But it’s like 
you. Gee, I’m sick of this coast! Say, can you beat 
it? Here we are, two fellers takin’ every chance in 
life to make an honest grub stake out of no-man’s 
land, and to do that we got to hunt our holes like 
gophers, lest folks get wise to us an’ snatch it from us. 
It sort of makes you wonder. But you know, Len, 
this river’s too rich. I sort of feel that. I kind of feel 
the thing’s not goin’ to be as easy as you make it seem. 
But we’re goin’ to see it through to the end. An’ God 
help the feller that starts in to rob us! Yes, it’s a kind 


22 The Saint of the Speedway 

thought of yours, sending me on the first trip. I got 
a mother an’ a dandy sister who’ll likely bless you for 
this. I guess they’re hard put all right, and the 
thought’s had me worried for months. Say-” 

He turned towards the river and glanced up at the 
sky. Len laughed. 

“That’s all right, Jim. I’m ready all the time,” he 
said. “It ain’t work gettin’ back on the river. It’s 
play. Come on. We’re going to get out half a ton of 
stuff,” he laughed, as he sprang to his feet. “Then 
I’ll make Perth, an’ buy up that tramp skipper.” 

He moved off beside his partner, leaving his golden 
pile just where it lay. And together they passed out of 
the shelter of the trees. 



CHAPTER II 


The Headland 

T HE woman was standing in the doorway of her 
log-built home. She was gazing out over the 
waters of the creek below her which flowed gently on 
to the distant Alsek River. A mood of quiet con¬ 
templative happiness was shining in her dark eyes. It 
was the mother soul in her that was stirred to a deep 
sense of happy satisfaction. 

Rebecca Carver was a smallish, sturdy, vigorous 
creature something past the middle of life. She had 
lived hardly enough in the harsh Alaskan territory that 
had bred her and had always remained her home. And 
even now, with advancing years, and a body sometimes 
only barely equal to the onslaught of its pitiless climate, 
she had not even a momentary desire to leave it. 

But then she had not lived unhappily. The years of 
her wifehood had been passed in the exciting, many- 
coloured, chequered life which ever falls to the lot of 
those who devote themselves to the crazy uncertainties 
of the quest of gold. No. Her life had never been 
monotonous. And besides the excitement of it all she 
had had her son, and daughter, and her man, and these 
alone would have been sufficient to keep an atmosphere 
of smiling contentment in her woman’s heart. 

Now, however, her man had long since gone. Her 
son was far away, fending for them and himself as 
best he might. She only had her daughter remaining 
with her, but the girl was the pride and joy of her 
23 


24 The Saint of the Speedway 

loyal heart; a blue-eyed, beautiful creature who never 
failed to remind her, to her contented satisfaction, of 
the cheerful, reckless, gambling husband who had been 
her strong support in the hard years of their life to¬ 
gether. 

Circumstances were hard-pressing with her now. 
They had pressed heavily ever since the death of her 
husband. The future was full enough of threat to 
depress the stoutest heart. But, for the moment, she 
was not concerned with these things. It was the 
thought of her boy, her first-born, that filled her 
yearning soul with happiness. Only that morning her 
daughter had brought her out a letter from Beacon 
Glory. It was a letter at long last from Jim. And the 
tidings it yielded were of the best. 

The day was utterly grey with the herald of coming 
winter. There had been no sun to relieve the dark- 
hued forests on the hills which rose up on every side 
about her. The blistering summer heat had long since 
reduced all vegetation to the russet hues of fall, and 
even the great forests of jack-pine had lost something 
of the intensity of their evergreen hues. Somewhere 
behind her, hidden by a rampart of iron-bound coast, 
lay the open seas of the North Pacific. For the rest, 
to the North, and East, and South, lay the tattered 
world of broken foothills which were the fringe of 
the greater hills beyond. She knew it all by heart, this 
world of southern Alaska which had always been her 
home, and for all the overwhelming nature of it, for 
all the threat of the heavy grey sky, she feared nothing 
it could show her. And now, perhaps, less than ever. 

She abruptly withdrew her gaze from the tumultuous 
scene of it all. She dived into the capacious pocket of 
her rough skirt. When her hand was withdrawn it was 


The Headland 


25 


grasping the neatly folded pages of a letter in a big, 
scrawling handwriting. She unfolded them and be¬ 
came deeply absorbed. She almost knew the contents 
of the letter by heart, but somehow she felt she could 
never read it often enough. 

The letter was vaguely headed “Australia.” It was 
without date, but this she had ascertained from its 
postmark, as she had also ascertained that it had been 
mailed in a city she had barely cognisance of, called 
“Perth.” 

Dearest Mother: 

WeVe made good. We’ve made so good I can’t begin to 
tell you about it. 

Just for a moment a deep sigh of happiness escaped 
the mother’s lips, and something like tears of emotion 
half-filled her eyes. She brushed them aside promptly, 
however, and continued her reading. 

I don’t know the date so I can’t hand it to you. I can’t 
hand you our whereabouts either, but for different reasons. 
What I' can tell you is I’m setting right out for home as soon 
as Len gets along back, which’ll maybe in six weeks. He’s 
taking this letter with him, an’ will mail it, which’ll maybe in 
two or three weeks’ time. I’ll be setting out in a windjam¬ 
mer called the Imperial of Bristol. When you read the 
name you’ll wonder to see it in Len’s handwriting, but you 
see he’s taking the letter, and we don’t know the name of the 
ship till he gets to his destination and charters it, see? So 
he’ll have to fill the name in. This’ll all seem kind of mys¬ 
terious to you, but it don’t matter. The thing is, I’m coming 
right along home to you, an’ll reach you in about six months’ 
time, with enough stuff so you’ll never have to worry a thing 
again ever. 

The letter went on for several pages, filled to the brim 
with that kindly, intimate talk which never fails to stir 


26 The Saint of the Speedway 

the depths of a mother’s heart. And so Rebecca 
Carver read it all once again, revelling in the delight 
with which the words of her boy filled her. 

Jim had made good! Jim was returning home! He 
was crazy to be with her and his sister Claire again. 
Oh, it was good, so good! The woman’s brown eyes 
were raised smiling whimsically at the sudden thought 
which her mood had inspired. Why, it was all so 
good that she would almost joyfully accept whatever 
offer Bad Booker might make for their last block of 
real estate in the city of Beacon Glory, which now 
represented their entire resources for the coming win¬ 
ter. Yes, never in her life had she been so thrilled. 
Never! 

She remembered earlier thrills. She remembered 
those hard times when they had been well-nigh con¬ 
fronted with starvation. She remembered how her 
husband, that headlong gambler, had set out to the 
gaming tables of Beacon Glory with their last remain¬ 
ing dollars in his pocket. And she had sat at home 
with her half-fed children awaiting his return. Then 
the joy of his return with pockets bulging—yes, those 
had been great moments. But then he was a skilful 
gambler and rarely failed. This—this was something 
on a different plane. Something- 

Her contemplative gaze had discovered movement 
on the hillside across the water. It was a horse-drawn 
vehicle moving rapidly, descending the precipitate slope 
diagonally at the break of the forest which gave way 
to the bald, wind-swept crest above. Its course would 
bring it down to the far side of the ford of the river 
directly opposite where she was standing. 

Her smile deepened. It needed no second thought 
to tell her whose vehicle it was. Ivor McLagan, the 



The Headland 


27 


oil man from the Alsek River, was on his way into 
Beacon Glory, which lay ten miles or so to the north¬ 
east of her home. 

She awaited his arrival. He was a welcome enough 
visitor at all times. And he never failed to call in on 
his way, and leave her any newspapers he might chance 
to have. He was wealthy, and a man everybody es¬ 
teemed. She had sometimes hoped- But she knew 

that could never be. Claire was a girl of strong de¬ 
cision for all she was only twenty-one. She had al¬ 
ready definitely refused to marry him. She liked him 
well enough. They all liked him. Especially had Jim 
liked him, but it was her woman’s understanding of the 
position that made her fear that Claire’s frank regard 
would never deepen to anything warmer. 

The buckboard seemed to be almost falling down 
the precipitous slope under the man’s reckless han¬ 
dling. It was literally plunging headlong, but she un¬ 
derstood—she knew. It was McLagan’s way with his 
Alaskan bronchos. There would be no disaster. And 
as she watched his progress she wanted to laugh, for 
such was the lightness of her mood. 

The buckboard rattled, and shook, and jolted as it 
bustled down the hillside over a broken almost unde¬ 
fined trail. Its surefooted, well-fed team was utterly 
untiring. The shaggy creatures made no mistakes. 
Tough, hardy, they were bred to just such work as this, 
and they were in the hands of a super-teamster. So 
the creek came up to them with a rush and they plunged 
belly deep into the chill water of the ford. Then, mo¬ 
ments later, they were reined in sharply at the door of 
the man’s familiar stopping place. 

“Say, ma’am, this country’s one hell of a proposition 



28 The Saint of the Speedway 

for a quiet, decent, comfort-loving, ordinary sort of 
engineer ” 

The man’s greeting was full of cheer, and his smiling 
eyes conveyed a quiet sense of dry humour. Ivor 
McLagan had no claims to good looks, and his manner 
ordinarily was sufficiently brusque to border on rude¬ 
ness, but in this woman’s presence he had a way of dis¬ 
playing a side to his character that those who met him 
in business, those of his own sex, were never admitted 
to. No, McLagan had nothing in face or feature to 
thrill any woman’s artist soul, but what he lacked in 
that direction he made up in another. As he turned 
his buckboard wheels and leapt to the ground, he tow¬ 
ered over the little woman in the doorway a figure of 
magnificent manhood. 

Rebecca’s eyes smiled up at him responsively. 

“It surely is, Ivor. But I don’t mind a thing. Jim’s 
coming right back to me. He’s made good, he and 
Len, an’ he’s coming home with stuff so we’ll never 
need to worry ever again.” 

It was out. The mother had to tell her glorious 
news on the instant. And to this old friend of her 
Jim’s of all men. 

Ivor nodded. Then came the quiet, conventional 
reply, “You don’t say?” 

The woman’s excitement rose. “But I surely do,” 
she cried, holding up the bundled pages of her letter. 
“It’s all right here. This is mail I got from him this 
morning, Claire brought it out from Beacon, bless 
her! My, I—I sort of feel just anyhow. Ever feel 
that way? Ever feel you wanted to dance around an’ 
shout? Say—but come right in an’ get some coffee. 
It’s on the stove. I—I’m forgettin’ everything.” 


The Headland 


29 


Ivor shook his head. 

‘‘Don’t you worry, ma’am,” he said in a tone of sym¬ 
pathy one would never have associated with him. 
“Just get busy an’—shout. But tell me first, when’s 
Jim getting along?” 

“Guess he’s right on the w T ay now.” The woman’s 
eyes were alight, then a shadow crept into them. “He 
won’t be along for six months from the start. Maybe 
that’ll be three months an’ more from the coming of 
this letter.” 

“Yes, it would be about that” 

The man’s eyes were serious as he regarded the letter 
bunched in Rebecca’s hand. Then he looked up and 
was smiling again. 

“I’m just so glad for you, ma’am, I can’t say,” he 
said cordially. “Jim’s a great boy. He’s got elegant grit, 
too. He’s out for you an’ Claire all the time, and I’ll 
be real glad to have him around again for—for all 
your sakes. How does Claire feel ? But there, I guess 
she’s crazy glad. Where is she?” 

He craned, peering into the doorway expectantly. 
But the mother shook her head. 

“She’s not inside,” she declared. “Glad? Why, it 
don’t say a thing, Ivor. You know her. She and 
Jim are kind of all in all to themselves. She went sort 
of white as a corpse when she read that letter. She 
didn’t say much, but if you’d seen her eyes! My! 
You can guess wher’ she is now. Ther’s only one 
place for Claire when Jim’s on the water sailin’ home. 
It’s right up on the headland back of here,” she jerked 
her greying head towards the back of the house. 
“She’s right up there where she can see the sea. An’ 
I guess she’s dreaming fool dreams of his home¬ 
coming.” 


30 The Saint of the Speedway 

“Yes, I guess it’s kind of wonderful for you both,” 
Ivor said kindly. 

“Wonderful? Sure it is. Ther’s another thing. 
We been kind of in bad shape an’ were selling out our 
last block in Beacon that my man left to us. Oh, I’m 
not really thinkin’ of the stuff he’s bringing. No,” 
Rebecca went on, as though she feared the man might 
think that sheer selfishness was the substance of her 
delight. “But it helps. And Claire’s been a heap wor¬ 
ried dealing with Bad Booker, but it don’t matter a 
thing now. We’ll take what he offers an’ be thank¬ 
ful.” 

Ivor had turned to his horses. He unloosed the 
halter shank of the nearside beast and secured it to the 
tying ring on the log wall of the house, then he drew 
out a bundle of well-read newspapers and held them 
out to Rebecca. 

“Here, take these,” he said in his quick, rough way. 
“I’ll leave my plugs right here. They’ll be glad to 
stand. I’m just going up to get a word with Claire. 
I’ll bring her right along down.” 

The mother took the papers and threw them on to 
the table in the room behind her. Somehow her usual 
interest in them was overwhelmed. 

“Thanks, Ivor,” she said. “You never seem to for¬ 
get us. I’ll sure be real glad to have you bring Claire 
down with you. She’s crazy glad, sure—we both are, 
but it don’t seem time to me to be dreaming around on 
any old hill-tops. I’ll set coffee an’ a bite to eat against 
you get back.” 

She watched him hurry away, this great creature all 
height, and muscle, and plainness of feature. She 
realised his eagerness, and again there arose in her 


The Headland 31 

mother heart that hope which her better sense sought 
to deny her. 

The girl was gazing out upon the distant sea. The 
iron-bound coast that lay immediately below her made 
no claim upon her, for all the wild beauty, the cruel 
austerity with which its ages-long battle with the 
merciless waters of a storm-swept ocean had endowed 
it. Neither had the panorama of tumultuous hills 
which rose about her, nor the distant snowy crests of 
the northern reaches of the Rocky Mountains any ap¬ 
peal. She only had eyes for the grey, far-off horizon 
where sky and sea met. She was searching for some 
sign of a sail, which, in fancy, she might translate into 
the wings of the vessel bringing home a beloved brother 
and—fortune. 

She was beautifully tall and slim, for all her some¬ 
what rough clothing which had little more than 
warmth and utility to recommend it. It was the best 
that the joint efforts of her mother and herself had 
been able to contrive out of their limited resources, 
and the girl was not given to grumbling. No, she 
was accustomed to hardships, and self-denial came easy 
to her. She was too strong and resolute, she was too 
frankly generous to harbour any petty resentment 
against her lot. 

In twenty-one years she had grown to superb woman¬ 
hood, healthy in mind, healthy in a wonderful degree 
in body. Her father had seen something of her splen¬ 
did development before he died, but it was left to her 
mother to witness the final reality of it. To the latter 
her child was the most beautiful creature in all the 
world. Her wide blue eyes, and her wealth of flam- 


32 The Saint of the Speedway 

ing red hair, her shapely body, so tall, and vigorous, 
and straight; then her sun-tanned, rounded cheeks, 
and her well-chiselled nose, and broad, even brows; 
were they not all something of a reflection of the early 
youth of the man who had given her her own life’s 
happiness? Time and again her mother had rejoiced 
that she had had her christened with so choice a name 
as “St. Claire.” True, the “Saint” had been permitted 
to fall into disuse. But it still belonged to her, and 
nothing could rob her of it. And the mother only 
regretted that the girl herself refused to permit its 
revival. 

Just now the girl had given herself up to idle mo¬ 
ments of delicious dreaming. And why not? Dif¬ 
ficulties and troubles had beset them for so long; oh, 
yes. She had no scruple in admitting the bald, hard 
truth. Not alone was her joy at the prospect of Jim’s 
return. He was returning with some sort of fortune, 
for them as well as himself. 

It would mean so much to them. Her mother would 
know ease and peace of mind after all her heroic strug¬ 
gles with adversity. Jim would be freed from his 
great responsibility for their care. And she—she— 
well, there were so many great and wonderful things 
in the world she wanted to do and see. 

And dreaming of all that this splendid return meant 
to them her mind went back to the interview she had 
had only that morning in Beacon Glory with the man 
everybody called “Bad” Booker, the chief real estate 
man in the city. 

Her journey into town had been inspired by their 
necessity. Her mother still owned a small block of 
property in Beacon Glory, the last remaining asset left 


The Headland 


33 


to her by her gambler husband. It was mortgaged to 
Booker, himself, but only lightly, and she had visited 
him to endeavour to sell it right out. Without Booker’s 
help they possessed less than twenty dollars with which 
to face the winter, and await Jim’s return. She took 
no account of the played-out gold claim on the creek 
below her. That had ceased to yield a pennyweight 
of gold more than two years back, a fact which had 
been the inspiration of her brother’s going. 

She remembered Booker’s smiling fat face and bald 
head as she offered him her proposition. He always 
smiled, and it was a hateful, greasy, fixed sort of smile. 
She believed he was a Jew. But Jew or Gentile, he was 
a merciless money-spinner, ready to rob the world of 
its last dollar. 

Her anger surged even now with her thought of the 
man. He had offered to take the block off her mother’s 
hands for two thousand dollars cash. It was the limit 
to which he would go. It was mortgaged for two 
thousand dollars to him. It was in the very centre of 
Beacon Glory, next to the Speedway Dance Hall. And 
even though the city was dead flat as a reaction from 
its early boom, the property was worth not a cent less 
than ten thousand dollars. It was maddening. It was 
a sheer “hold-up.” But she knew they were helpless 
in the man’s hands. Oh, if they could only tide over 
until Jim got back! 

She had told her mother not a word of the man’s 
offer yet. Somehow she felt she had not the courage 
to tell her. Yet she would have to do so, and, worst 
of all, she knew they would have to accept the man’s 
offer or starve. 

Well, she would have one slight consolation. Once 


34 The Saint of the Speedway 

the deed was signed, and the money was in her hands, 
she would tell “Bad” Booker all that was in her mind. 
She- 

The sound of a footstep behind her broke up the 
half-fierce, almost tearful train of her thought. She 
turned sharply to discover Ivor McLagan breathing 
heavily after his climb. 

“Say, Claire,” he cried, while he spread out his hands 
deprecatingly, and his smallish eyes twinkled humor¬ 
ously, “why in the name of everything holy make this 
darn country worse than it is ? Why you need to climb 
a mile high to enjoy the thought of your Jim, boy, com¬ 
ing along, I just can’t see. I surely can’t!” Then 
he glanced quickly out to sea and took a deep breath. 
“My, but this is a swell spot!” he added soberly. 

The girl’s bad time had passed. Her smile came on 
the instant. 

“That’s quite a contradiction,” she said slily. 

“Sure. Well, we’li cut the first part right out.” 
McLagan’s twinkling gaze came back to the girl’s face, 
and he drank in the fresh beauty of it. “I couldn’t 
pass along into that nightmare city of ours without 
speaking my piece of gladness for your news. It’s 
bully! It certainly is. The boy’s made good. An’ for 
you folks, I guess, only just in time.” 

The girl nodded as she looked up into the man’s 
plain face, and a flash of thoughtful regret for its 
plainness broke in on all the rest that preoccupied her. 

“I doubt if it’s even that, Ivor,” she said, a little 
desperately. 

“How?” 

The man’s interrogation was a return to his rough¬ 
ness of manner. 

“Why, Bad Booker’s got us right in his clutches, and 



The Headland 


35 


we can’t even wriggle. He reckons to hand Mum two 
thousand on top of his two thousand mortgage for 
a block of stuff you could market free for ten thou¬ 
sand. It’s his two thousand or—or starve.” 

The girl finished up with a smile that failed to hide 
her feelings, and McLagan’s eyes hardened. 

“The man’s a swine,” he said, and his voice grated 
harshly. 

“That don’t help.” 

“No. Don’t accept, Claire. Don’t you sell.” 

“But we’ve got to eat.” 

“Sure, an’ you’re going to. Here.” Just for a 
second the man hesitated, and shifted his gaze from 
the beautiful urgent face that never more deeply ap¬ 
pealed to him than now. Then it came back on the 
instant. “It’s no use,” he cried, and his tone was 
rough. “You’re not going to starve. You and your 
mother can have all the cash you need till Jim comes, 
and—and I want nothing in return. Do you get my 
meaning, Claire? If you take money on loan from 
me till Jim gets home you’ll never have need to worry. 
You can just shut it right out of your head and forget 
it—till Jim comes home. I mean that just plain an’ 
straight. And there isn’t a thing behind it.” 

They stood eye to eye while the girl swiftly read the 
sheer honesty lying behind the man’s eyes. Then she 
shook her head. 

“No,” she said, “I’m going to sell. I’m going to sell, 
and I’ll just wait around after, hoping for the day to 
come when the Aurora Clan will reckon that Bad 
Booker’s a sort of nightmare disease an’ needs plenty 
good med’cine. Thanks, Ivor. It’s just a real kind 
thought of yours, and the thing that makes me glad is 
I know you mean it just as you’ve said it. But I don’t 


36 The Saint of the Speedway 

want your money. I—I wouldn’t take it if it was that 
or^or starve.” 

For all there was something of roughness in the 
girl’s choice of words for her refusal, there was none 
in her manner. Even her hope that one day Booker 
would receive his medicine at the hands of the secret 
Aurora Clan was without undue feeling. The man was 
deeply stirred. 

They were great friends, these two. But for the 
man’s peace of mind the frank nature of their friend¬ 
ship was deplorable. He loved the girl with all the 
strength of his manhood. He held a big position with 
the Mountain Oil Corporation of Ohio as their con¬ 
sulting engineer, and his whole desire was to take this 
child of the northern wilderness away to his far-off 
home in the sunlit valleys of California. She had 
refused to marry him more than once. But somehow 
her refusal had left their friendship unaffected. She 
liked him whole-heartedly in a manner that to her pre¬ 
cluded all possibility of regard of a deeper nature, but 
which in the man only contrived to strengthen his nat¬ 
ural persistence. 

The leaping fires of the man’s passion surged up in 
face of the rebuff. For a brief moment he contem¬ 
plated the smiling eyes in their wonderful framing of 
vivid hair, which the slouch-brimmed hat she was wear¬ 
ing failed to conceal. Then his lips obeyed his im¬ 
pulse. 

“Yes, I know, Claire,” he said, his voice harshened 
by emotion. “You won’t, you can’t accept my help. 
Why? I’ll tell you. Because I don’t belong to you. 
Because I want to marry you, am crazy with love for 
you, and you don’t feel like falling for my notion. So 
you can’t have the thing I want to do for you like I 


The Headland 


37 


never wanted to do for anybody ever before. I guess 
you’re right enough in your own lights, sure you are. 
You’re not putting yourself under obligation to the 
feller you don’t fancy to marry. But why not marry 
me, Claire ? Maybe I’m not a thing of beauty. But I 
guess I just love you to death. Maybe you don’t care a 
thing for the picture I make now, but you’ll get used to 
it. Sure you will.” He laughed a little bitterly. “I 
guess folks can get used to most things after a while.” 
Then his smile passed. “But, my dear, ther’s not a 
thing in the world I wouldn’t do to give you a real dandy 
life. These oil wells out here are going to pass me a 
fortune that I’m crazy to share with you. Won’t you? 
No. You won’t. I can see it in your eyes, the same 
as I’ve seen it before. But—but if I’ve still got to 
stand for that, there’s things I won’t stand for. You 
need help and I’ll raise all the hell I can to pass it you.” 

Claire shook her head a shade impatiently. 

“It’s no use, Ivor. Why—why can’t we be friends ? 
True, I haven’t a thing against you in the world, not a 
thing, not even”—she smiled gently—“the looks which 
you don’t seem to set much stock by. No, it isn’t 

anything like that. True it isn’t. I like you, but- 

Here, you don’t get the things lying back of my 
fool head. Guess I’m my father’s daughter. You 
knew him for what he was. He was a gambler. And 
maybe, in a way, I’m a gambler, too. I want life with 
all its chances. I want to reach out an’ hug it all. I 
want to take every chance coming, and do something, 
and be something in the game of it all. I don’t want 
to marry. Sure not yet. I don’t want to share in any 
man’s home, and—and grow on like a cabbage. 
There’s too much of the big adventure in life for me to 
miss it all. Maybe I’ll get sort of disillusioned later— 


38 The Saint of the Speedway 

maybe. I can’t help that. But I mean to take a hand 
in the game meanwhile.” 

There was such a ring of final resolution in the 
girl’s smiling denial that the man realised his mo¬ 
mentary defeat. So he offered no further protest. 
He made no attempt at argument. He shrugged his 
great shoulders, and the happy twinkle returned to his 
eyes. 

“Don’t say another word, Claire,” he said gently. 
“Maybe I understand the thing lying back of your 
mind. Forget my break. It was a bad one, and I 
shouldn’t have made it, but—but I sort of just had to. 
I won’t do it again. There isn’t some other feller, is 
there ?” 

The girl laughed happily in her relief at his manner. 

“Not a soul,” she cried, unhesitatingly. 

“That’s all right.” The man’s eyes smiled respon¬ 
sively. “I can wait. I’m going to, and I’ll make no 
more bad breaks. And maybe when you’ve hit your 
adventures, and kind of tired of them, and feel you’d 
like the rest you’ll have maybe earned, why I’ll be 
waiting around, and I’ll surely be ready to hand it you 
when you raise a finger, a sign. An’ meanwhile, my 
dear, I’d be glad to have you feel ther’s no sort of 
trouble in the world so big I wouldn’t be glad to smooth 
out for you.” He suddenly spread out his muscular 
hands. “These two hands are for you, night or day, 
all the time, and I’ve two ears that’ll hear the faintest 
whisper of trouble that’s worrying you. Say, come 
along right down. Your mother’s crazy to talk your 
Jim to you and she asked me to bring you to home.” 

The man’s whole manner was so gentle as to be 
irresistible. For all the thing that lay between them 
there had never been a moment when he had made so 


The Headland 


39 


great an appeal to the girl. His normal roughness she 
knew to be but an unfortunate garment in which he 
clothed himself. Now, as times before, she was listen¬ 
ing to the real man so surely hidden from the world 
that looked on. She was not without a shadow of 
regret that she could not see in him the man of her 
desire. Without a word of protest she permitted him 
to lead the way down from the bald crest of the head¬ 
land. 


CHAPTER III 


In Beacon Glory 

I VOR McLAGAN eased his great body in the groan¬ 
ing wicker chair, and his eyes snapped with some¬ 
thing like irritation. The long, lean cigar it was his 
habit to smoke he removed from between his lips, and 
indicated the main thoroughfare beyond the window 
behind him. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve a hunch for this muck-hole, 
Victor,” he said sharply. “Take a pull at yourself, 
man. Get a cold douche, if you can find a thing so 
wholesome in Beacon Glory, and wake yourself right 
up. Take a look out there. Take a peek around you, 
and if you aren’t as blind as a dead mule, and a sure 
candidate for the foolish place, you’ll see this darnation 
monument to human vanity as it is. I tell you there’s 
no sort of limit to human vanity when it gets a-riot 
fixing cities. Beacon Glory ? Did you ever call a hog¬ 
pen by any other fancy name? Sure you didn’t. You 
aren’t plumb crazed yet for all you’re talking this burg 
as though winter had no right hiding it up for six 
months of the year. Get a look at the garbage lying 
around even the business avenue. Avenue! Sounds 
fine, doesn’t it? And then think of the hell of flies and 
skitters you got to live through next summer. Look 
at the shanties lying scattered around desecrating a 
swell picture of Nature’s painting. They’re enough to 
insult a half-breed settlement that don’t know better. 
But that’s no circumstance to the folks who’re to blame 
40 


41 


In Beacon Glory 

for despoiling God Almighty’s decent earth with a 
pestilential collection of man’s assorted junk. The 
moral atmosphere of Beacon Glory would leave the 
hottest oven in hell hollering. There’s more dirt an’ 
dishonesty to the square inch in Beacon Glory than 
you’d ever find in any mediaeval Turkish penitentiary, 
kept especially for housing the folks they don’t like the 
faces of. And they call this quagmire of corruption 
‘Beacon Glory’! They laid it out in Avenues! They 
filled it up with garbage an’ human junk, an’ folk like 
you sit around with your hat in one hand and the other 
on your left chest and breathe the word ‘city’ in the 
sort of tone you’d hand out over a deathbed. That’s 
you, who don’t belong to it. You, who aren’t any sort 
of part of it, except you’re here to collect any stray 
gold lying around, and pass it back to your home city. 
You, a banker! My, it’s queer how folks can fall for 
their surroundings!” 

Victor Burns laughed cordially at his friend’s dia¬ 
tribe. It amused him thoroughly. McLagan was on 
his pet theme, which was an utter contempt and de¬ 
testation of the city of Beacon Glory. 

“That’s all right, Ivor,” he said. “You can’t run a 
branch of your bank and shout at the folks you do 
business with. For just as long as it’s my job collect¬ 
ing the dust folks don’t know better than to waste their 
lives chasing, Beacon Glory’s a deal bigger than ‘ace 
high’ to me. It’s a swell city that does a mighty big 
credit to the folks whose enterprise set it up—and 
made my living possible. You’re collecting oil in the 
big valleys, which is liable to leave you finding a queer 
sort of human fog lying about our principal avenue, 
but I’d like to say the ‘muck-hole’ of Beacon Glory 
don’t hurt your prospect a cent, and you’d miss its 


42 The Saint of the Speedway 

‘beauties' if the foolish ones had never dumped it 
down." 

McLagan laughed good-naturedly, and returned his 
cigar to its place in the comer of his capacious mouth. 
They were lounging in the office of Beacon Glory’s 
principal hotel, this engineer of the Mountain Oil 
Corporation and the chief banker of the place. They 
were something more than business acquaintances. A 
pleasant friendship existed between them, inspired per¬ 
haps by mutual esteem for the other’s integrity in sur¬ 
roundings which each knew to be something morally 
deplorable. 

The hotel—the Plaza by name—was an angular 
three-storied, wooden-frame building that had once 
been well and truly painted. But that was in the boom 
days. It had a verandah fronting on the city’s only 
business avenue, a long, unpaved thoroughfare that 
had wrecked the running gear of more vehicles in its 
time than any roadway the world had ever known. 
Over the verandah, on a level with the first floor, was 
a wide balcony of similar proportions. In the heyday 
of prosperity this had been covered by a brilliant 
striped awning, but that, like the outside paint, had 
long since yielded to the weather. But for all its 
dreary, derelict appearance the Plaza stood out amongst 
the rest of the city’s buildings, with one or two ex¬ 
ceptions, as something rather magnificent, if only for 
its proportions. 

McLagan and the banker had the office with its de¬ 
cayed furniture and spluttering wood stove to them¬ 
selves. That is, they only shared it with its atmosphere 
of general uncleanness. It was the hour immediately 
before supper, a meal which Abe Cranfield’s fly-blown 
menu described as “dinner," a title his boarders re- 


In Beacon Glory 43 

fused to accept. Soon contingents of humanity would 
foregather in anticipation of a meal to sustain stom¬ 
achs which had long since learned to satisfy them¬ 
selves on a diet of unsavoury monotony. 

“That’s all right, Victor,” McLagan said readily. 
“You’re a banker, I’m not. I’m just a hard citizen the 
same as the rest, and don’t need to worry to keep my 
notions of Beacon Glory to myself. And if any feller 
feels like disputing, why, I can argue it out any old 
way he fancies. But I’m sick with this city the 
same as I’m sick with most things unclean. I guess 
it isn’t altogether the fault of folks so much as 
the times, and the thing life’s drifted into. Does it 
ever worry you thinking of modern conditions and 
the crazy scramble of it all? You know, I ought 
to’ve been born two or three centuries back before 
some fool guy invented the words ‘democracy’ and 
‘proletariat.’ You can’t run a thing right by commit¬ 
tees and assemblies set up by any popular vote. Think 
of me trying to locate oil in the hills back here with a 
bunch of guys sitting around telling me how I need to 
go about it, and where to start my drills. No, sir. 
It’s the same with countries and cities and Sunday 
schools. You need one head and one hand. And 
whether for good or bad you’ll get some sort of order 
and discipline and things’ll move quick. I’d say it’s 
better, seeing human nature is what it is, to let one feller 
graft than a government of hundreds, and it’s cheaper. 
This territory’s run by a government that only cares 
for its job and legislates thousands of miles away. 
What’s the result? Why—Beacon Glory, an undis¬ 
ciplined quagmire of human muck!” 

Victor Burns lit a cigarette and grinned through the 
smoke. He was a small, round, sleek little man, clean- 


44 The Saint of the Speedway 

shaven and with a pleasant face that looked to be made 
for smiling. He was almost in ridiculous contrast to 
the huge frame and rugged exterior of the other. 

“That’s all so, all right,” Burns nodded. “I’ve 
thought heaps more than that lying awake at nights 
wondering how far the other feller’s got me beat. But 
a grouch in this office isn’t going to fix things right.” 
He glanced alertly round the room which still remained 
empty. “And that’s why I’m kind of glad for that 
bunch of boys who got together to try and clean things 
up. It don’t matter to me who or what the folks of the 
Aurora Clan are, or the ultimate purpose lying back of 
their game. They started out a year ago to clean 
things up some and they got half the toughs of this 
burg scared to foolishness. There hasn’t been a hold-up 
in months, and only a week back these white-gowned 
purifiers burnt out stark that drug den of Bernard’s 
where Charlie O’Byrne was done to death for his wad. 
Say, those boys are right if they just stick right to the 
game they started on. The danger is, when they got 
Beacon where they need it and have cleaned up the 
tougher stuff of the place, they may be looking for pay¬ 
ment.” 

Ivor shook his head. 

“You never can tell, Victor,” he said seriously. 
“They’re a terror to the muck of this place now, I agree. 
Maybe later they’ll be a terror, anyway, that’s the way 
of these things. So long as they act the way they are 
we’re all glad, we must be. Any feller with a wide 
mind would be crazy to feel bad about them, but,” he 
shook his head and flung the stump of his cigar almost 
viciously into the stove, “maybe it’ll just drift into the 
usual. With the others out of the way they’ll do the 


45 


In Beacon Glory 

hold-up. Then the Government, thousands of miles 
away’ll butt in. The Aurora Clan will get cleaned 
right up and back we’ll fall into the muck those boys 
did their best to haul us out of. No, I’ve a brief for 
them. I surely have. But when they’ve done their 
work and start getting gay for themselves, I’ll be as 
ready as any one to start cleaning them up. It’s a hell 
of a place, anyway!” 

McLagan remained gazing into the stove with eyes 
that had lost their usual twinkle. He was a man of 
immense resolution and capacity. A brilliant mining 
engineer, he yearned for wider scope in the affairs of 
life. So far all his energies had been directed to the 
earth’s remote places, seeking those treasures for his 
Corporation which at any cost must be acquired for 
the purposes of satisfying voracious shareholders. 
And Victor Burns, watching him, understood some¬ 
thing of the restless, dissatisfied spirit driving him. 
He was a shrewd judge of men, as are most real 
bankers, and this burly, plain creature, all energy and 
capacity, more than usually interested him. 

“How’s oil ?” he asked quietly, as the other remained 
silent. 

“Just about the same.” Ivor laughed in his short 
way. “Oh, it’s there all right. It’s there plenty. The 
Alsek valley’s full of it—when we can reach it. That’s 
one of the things makes me feel bad for this place. 
When we strike it, as we’re sure to, the old gold boom 
that bred this city won’t be any sort of circumstance.” 

“When’ll that be?” 

Burns’ eyes were shrewdly inquiring. It was his 
business to be well-informed. 

“Any old time, maybe a month, maybe two years.” 


46 The Saint of the Speedway 

McLagan shook his head. “You can’t just say. But 
two years from now is our limit. That’ll make a 
seven-year prospect.” 

“I see.” Burns nodded and glanced round. The 
door had opened to admit the first arrival of the board¬ 
ers. “Well, we need it. There’s some gold flowing in 
slowly from the country. But things are dead flat, 
and I can’t even begin to guess where the folks collect 
the dollars spent at the Speedway every night. Max, 
there, tells me he’s looking to a big spending winter, 
but I don’t see how he figures it. Howdy, Tilbury,” 
he nodded at the new arrival. “Where’s your partner, 
Allison ?” 

The newcomer, slight, short and with greying hair, 
nodded back a greeting. 

“Oh, I guess he’s on the bum around. He’ll be 
along. Glad to s£e you, Mr. McLagan,” he said, turn¬ 
ing quickly and almost deferentially to the engineer. 
“Opened up a gusher yet?” 

McLagan’s eyes twinkled as he rose from his pro¬ 
testing chair. 

“Guess I’ll be asked that haf a century of times 
before the night’s out. No, boy,” he said. “The old 
earth’s holding up her secrets and looks like holding 
’em years. An’ say, you’ll be doing me real service 
putting that news around when the boys come in to 
feed. Put it round quick, while I go and wash. Trav¬ 
elling’s a mighty dirty pastime around Beacon Glory, 
which is only reasonable.” And he passed out of the 
office just as a distant bell rang announcing the evening 
meal. 

“Bad” Booker was sitting in his private room behind 
the outer office. It was a comfortable apartment, al- 


47 


In Beacon Glory 

most sumptuous, and seemed to be the natural setting 
for the personality of this real estate man. He was a 
heavy creature with a flowing moustache, of which, to 
judge by the inordinate care he bestowed upon it, he 
was exceedingly proud. He was fat and everything 
about him was gross. His general appearance and 
manner were of extreme good nature, and his smile 
to this end was of a quality admirably calculated to 
emphasise it. But Beacon Glory knew the man be¬ 
cause, whatever other things Beacon Glory may have 
lacked, it had a swift estimate of those who were part 
of its public life. Those whose misfortune made it 
necessary to come into business contact with Bad 
Booker hated and detested the man, and more particu¬ 
larly his smile, for they quickly found that the real 
estate mask was incapable of long concealing the ugly 
features of the usurer underneath. 

He was smoking a pungent Turkish cigarette lib¬ 
erally besprinkled with gold lettering, and the while he 
was studying the extensive deed of title relating to a 
corner block in the chief avenue of the city. An air 
of calm satisfaction pervaded the man, for he knew 
that the property under consideration was about to 
fall into his hands at a price which even he regarded as 
advantageous. It was what he desired. 

He was a shrewd creature with a wide vision in the 
matter of self-interest. Whatever others might think 
of Beacon Glory, he, at least, had no doubts. He real¬ 
ised with absolute certainty that the place was there 
to stay. It was within twenty miles of a fine, wide 
harbour for shipping from the South. It was built on 
the shores of a large lake whose name, since the city’s 
building, had become associated with the place, and it 
occupied a site in the heart of a splendid valley which 


48 The Saint of the Speedway 

ran right down to the sea and was the highway to the 
interior of Alaska through the otherwise almost im¬ 
passable world of the southern hills. It was the centre 
of a gold region that was as yet in its infancy. Fur¬ 
thermore, there was coal and iron, and undoubtedly 
oil in abundance in the broken world about it. The 
place was “flat” now as a reaction from its original 
boom, but it was moving steadily if slowly, and the 
right men were drifting in with a view to exploring 
its resources. 

Very quietly and unostentatiously he was acquiring 
every property that fell into the market so long as the 
price met his ideas of investment. He was ready to 
mortgage for any town property. Smiling at all times, 
his purse was always open for any proprietor of a 
town lot who needed temporary assistance. The man 
was a merciless money-spinner of the worst type. Dis¬ 
aster and misfortune to others were the conditions 
under which his real business prospered. 

He laid the documents aside and lit a fresh cigarette 
from the remains of the other, which he dropped 
thoughtfully into the silver-mounted ash-tray on the 
desk beside him. Then he sat back in his chair, and, 
with his fleshy hands clasped over his ample stomach, 
gave himself up to a few moments of rapid mental 
calculation. 

But his efforts were broken in upon. There was a 
light tap on the opaque glass of the door that shut him 
off from the outer office, and a clerk pushed his way 
in. 

In an instant his smiling habit returned, but his tone 
of greeting was sharp. 

“What in hell is it this time, Jake?” he demanded, 
while his hands fell away from his stomach. 


In Beacon Glory 49 

Jake Forner was a mild-looking creature whose face 
gave no true indication of the man behind it. He was 
broad and angular, with shoulders that looked sizes 
too big for the rest of his body. He was clean-shaven, 
with the wide brow and big dark eyes of the student. 
But his mouth and jaws were firmly set and suggested 
possibilities. 

^It’s an open letter,” he said, “and it was handed in 
by a kid I just didn’t seem to rec’nise. I didn’t feel 
like worrying you with it till I opened it, then I guessed 
I’d best pass it in to you right away.” 

He came over to the desk and held out an open 
sheet of paper, while his dark eyes closely scrutinised 
the smiling features of his employer. 

Booker took the paper without interest for all the 
other’s quietly impressive manner. He glanced at the 
open sheet casually, and, in a moment, his attention be¬ 
came profoundly absorbed. 

Jake Forner was watching him. His eyes had some¬ 
thing in them that suggested smiling thought behind 
them. He was noting his employer’s expression and 
saw it change rapidly from its habitual smile to com¬ 
plete seriousness, and, finally, to something that seemed 
to suggest anger not undriven by alarm. 

It was a curious document, littered with a scrawling 
writing made up of rough block capital letters and evi¬ 
dently indited by some rough instrument, possibly a 
piece of sharpened wood. The lettering was red and 
at the bottom of it, underneath the signature, was the 
rough outline of a skull and crossbones, a flamboyant, 
melodramatic finish that might well have inspired de¬ 
rision. But somehow, the thing inspired nothing of 
the sort in the mind of the man to whom it was ad¬ 
dressed. He read it carefully: 


50 The Saint of the Speedway 

Bad Booker, 

You are trying to steal a city block from a helpless client. 
You have a mortgage on it for two thousand dollars. You 
are offering two thousand dollars more to wipe out the mort¬ 
gage and possess the lot. The lowest market value of the 
property is ten thousand dollars. You will pay the difference 
between your mortgage and ten thousand dollars, namely, 
eight thousand dollars for the site. You have twenty-four 
hours in which to make a written offer of this amount. If 
you fail to do this, and to complete the deal in one week from 
this date, you will be hanged on the site in question. 

Sgd. Chief Light of the Aurora. 

Booker did not look up as he finished the reading. 
He sat gazing at the paper, and once or twice Jake 
Forner observed that he swallowed drily. Then, as 
the man remained furiously silent, the clerk cleared his 
throat. 

“^That’s about as ugly as I’ve known ’em to play,” 
he said in a tone of mild sympathy. 

Booker laid the paper down and raised a pair of 
angry eyes. The clerk saw the storm in them and 
waited for it to break. It came on the instant. 

“The swines!” Booker’s body was squared in the 
well-padded chair. He was sitting up and breathing 
heavily. “The dirty, low-down swines!” he cried. 
Then a heavy fist was raised and fell with a crash on 
the ill-drawn sign of the skull. “If they think they 
can scare me with a bluff like that I reckon they’re 
crazy. It’s a hold-up, and I’m falling for no hold-up. 
By God! I’ll fight them! Eight thousand? Not on 
your life. I’ll press that two thousand home right 
away and show ’em they can’t throw a bluff at me and 
get away with it. They want a written offer. Well, 
I guess they’ll get it. I’ll write it now an’ you can beat 
it out to the Carver woman, and put it right into her 


In Beacon Glory 51 

hands. But it’s for two thousand dollars. And I 
guess she’ll fall for it quick or—starve.” 

He pushed the Aurora Clan’s document roughly 
aside and started to write out his offer, but Jake anx¬ 
iously intervened; he quickly raised a white hand and 
passed it across his broad forehead. 

“I wouldn’t act in a hurry,” he said quickly. “You’re 
bucking a tough game with the ‘aces’ against you. The 
Aurora bunch have been mighty busy in the past weeks. 
Is it worth it? Just look back an’ see. Bernard’s 
gone. Clean wiped out, an’ he’s had to beat it out of 
Beacon looking like a black rooster that hasn’t moulted 
right. Then there was Pat Herne who robbed Len 
Sitwell when he was soused at the Speedway. They 
hanged him right outside the town limits. Then don’t 
forget Dick Mansell, who held up the stage coming 
in from Ranger. He was left pumped full of lead till 
you couldn’t tell his guts from an ash riddle. I’m 
scared for you, boss. I surely am. Ther’s a terror 
creepin’ through this place scares me plumb to death. 
These guys are a citizen bunch and no sort of ordinary 
toughs. They’re acting seemingly with some sort of 
slab-sided purpose. They’re wise to every move going 
on, an’ I can’t reckon how they get hold of things. 
But there it is, and when they hand in a brief on a 
boy they put through the thing it says. We’re a busi¬ 
ness enterprise, boss, and it’s our job to beat the other 
feller if we can. But I sort of feel when ther’s a 
hanging bee at the end of it, business goes right out. 
Don’t you jump, boss. Sure I’m scared. I haven’t 
your nerve. But I got it right here,” and he tapped his 
forehead with a forefinger, “this is no sort of bluff. 
It’s dead straight. An’ I’m not yearning to see you 
swinging on the wrong end of a rawhide rope.” 


52 The Saint of the Speedway 

Jake spoke quietly but urgently, and his usually mild 
eyes were a match for his manner. He was Booker’s 
confidential clerk, a man of quiet efficiency and whose 
vision was unusually clear. So, for all his swift wrath, 
Booker had let him talk. Now, however, the usurer 
leapt uppermost and his reply was swift and biting. 

“You want me to hand out eight thousand at the 
orders of this gang?” he cried, furiously. “You want 
me to pass eight thousand good dollars to Rebecca 
Carver when she’s ready to close for two? You’re 
crazy, Jake! Crazy as a bed-bug! If that’s the sort 
of business we’re to do, I guess the sooner we close 
our doors and beat it the better. Besides-” 

“And the hanging bee?” 

The eyes of the clerk were steadily regarding his 
furious chief, and somehow the quiet reminder was not 
without effect. Booker shifted his gaze and it fell on 
the lamentable design of the skull. 

“This thing sets me crazy mad,” he protested, and 
his tone had somehow fallen from its original bluster. 

“But you’ll be madder—for a while—at the hanging 
bee.” 

Booker broke into a short, harsh laugh at his clerk’s 
persistence in dwelling upon the thing he saw lying 
ahead. 

“That stunt has got you scared all right, Jake,” 
Booker said, with a world of contempt in the quick 
look he raised to the man’s pale face. .“Maybe you’re 
guessing, seeing you’re my clerk, they’ll need you to 
be present to share in the game.” 

A flush mounted to the clerk’s cheeks. 

“You can guess that way if you fancy, boss,” he 
retorted, in a pronounced change of tone. Then his 
eyes searched the fat, unsmiling face before him. “But 



53 


In Beacon Glory 

you best get this right now and get it quick. I’m out 
for your profit as well as my own. I’m out to see this 
business go right on without any interruption in the 
nature of a hanging bee. If you collected that chunk 
of real estate for two thousand dollars on top of the 
mortgage it would be a swell profit. Some folks might 
call it robbery, seeing they ain’t in it. But ten thou¬ 
sand dollars is bedrock just now as they say in that 
brief, and, when boom time comes again, you won’t 
miss the six thousand dollars’ difference they’re de¬ 
manding. Well, I guess I’d buy off a hanging bee, 
with me as the centrepiece, any old time for six thou¬ 
sand dollars. And if you’re wise, I guess you’ll act 
that way, too.” 

“But you’re forgetting the bluff of it all,” Booker 
said, without looking up. Then he raised his hard 
eyes. “Gee, haven’t you any sort of old guts makes 
you want to kick? Can you stand for a thing like 
that?” he cried, holding up the ill-written document. 
“Are we men, or-?” 

“We certainly wouldn’t be men for long if we didn’t 
stand for it. You don’t seem to get a grip of this 
thing, boss. I’ve watched it all the time. This Aurora 
bunch is as real as the old Ku-Klux Klan, that cleaned 
up the south in the nigger days. You’re wondering if 
we’re men. Well, I’d say right here, let’s be. Don’t 
write your offer in a hurry. Think awhile. An’ when 
you’ve thought good I’ll saddle my pony and ride out 
to Rebecca Carver with the result. It won’t hurt us 
to get that block at the price they say. But it will at 
any other. I’m making that tracing of the new city 
limits and need to get right on with it. Maybe in a 
while you’ll let me know the thing you’ve decided.” 

Jake turned away and passed quickly into the outer 



54 The Saint of the Speedway 

office, closing the partition door carefully behind him. 
Booker watched him go with eyes which had doubt in 
them for the first time. Yielding was utterly foreign 
to his nature where advantage in a transaction lay 
within his grasp. But the mild-eyed clerk had driven 
home his argument in a fashion all the more relentless 
for its sobriety. And for once in his life Bad Booker, 
the usurer, was thinking more of the vision of a hang¬ 
ing as conjured by his subordinate than he was of rob¬ 
bing a helpless widow of six thousand dollars. 


CHAPTER IV 


The Great Disaster 

HE mother was sitting over her cookstove. She 



A was almost crouching over it. With her hands 
tightly clasped she seemed as though she was striving 
with every resource of her being to support herself un¬ 
der the crushing weight of the great grief with which 
she was beset. Her widely gazing eyes were straining 
with the mental anguish behind them. And they were 
utterly unseeing for all they stared into the ruddy heart 
of the fire shining between the upright bars. Stony 
misery looked out of them, that dreadful expression 
of heartbreak which seems to leave a woman powerless, 
helpless. 

The living room about her was neat, and of its usual 
orderliness. It lacked nothing of the housewifely care 
that was usually bestowed upon it. For all the poverty 
of its furnishing, it was a place of comfort, which, 
even under Rebecca Carver's suddenly imposed grief, 
had not been allowed to suffer. Her daughter Claire 
had seen to that. For the time her mother was sub¬ 
merged in her trouble, and the girl herself was no less 
stricken, but will and youth in the latter had over¬ 
ridden every weakness of the moment. 

Thus the mother had sat for many hours. And the 
transformation which had taken place in her in twenty- 
four hours was something almost horrifying to the de¬ 
voted daughter. 

During the long hours of night the still, silent figure 


55 


56 The Saint of the Speedway 

had nursed her despair. Claire, no less sleepless, had 
discovered her in precisely the same position each time 
she had left her bed in an adjoining room. She had 
prayed her mother, she had sought to persuade her by 
every means in her power, to seek her bed, and such 
peace as sleep might afford her. But it had all been 
useless. Each time her mother had obeyed her sub¬ 
missively, meekly, almost mechanically, only to return 
again to her vigil at the fireside the moment she had 
been left alone. 

The grey afternoon was far advanced when Claire 
returned from the creek below with her arms full of 
a snowy laundry. Work! It had been the same all 
day with her. It was her only defence. She pushed 
her way in through the half-open door, and one swift 
glance and the sound of rustling paper as she deposited 
her burden on the well-worn table, told her of the 
unchanged mental attitude of her mother. 

Just for a moment she stood regarding the bowed 
figure with troubled eye. She saw the crumpled news- 
sheet, one of the papers which Ivor had left with them 
the day before. It was crushed under her arms as 
they rested in her lap. And she understood. Her 
mother had been reading again, perhaps for the hun¬ 
dredth time, that brief newspaper story which was the 
source of the nightmare of disaster which had fallen 
upon them. 

The girl was tired and utterly dispirited. Somehow 
her tall, graceful figure seemed slightly bowed out of 
its usual courageous bearing. Her pretty eyes were 
ringed about, as though, in the absence of observation, 
she had yielded to her woman’s expression of grief. 
But now, at the sight of the silent, tearless figure at 
the stove, she summoned every ounce of her youthful 


The Great Disaster 


57 


courage to her aid. She moved across the room 
quickly, and deliberately removed the paper from be¬ 
neath the yielding arms. 

“Must you, mother ?” she said quietly, but with a 
sharpness she was wholly unaware of. Then she added 
as she smoothed out the paper, “Will it do any good? 
You’ve read the story till—till you’re nigh sick. 
You’ve read it till I just can’t bear seeing you read it 
any longer. I guess I’ll need to burn it if I don’t want 
to have you set crazy.” 

But she made no attempt to burn the paper, and all 
her courage seemed to fade completely out as her 
mother raised to hers a pair of eyes that were filled 
with a world of piteousness. 

The latter shook her greying head. 

“I won’t go crazy, child,” she said in a low, 
monotonous voice. “Give me time, dear. You see, 
he was my boy—my Jim. He was everything to me— 
my son, and—and he’s gone.” 

Something stirred in the girl—something suddenly 
spurred her. It was an expression of youthful hope, 
which, in calmer moments, she would have realised was 
ill-enough founded. 

“But has he?” she demanded, almost vehemently. 
“You don’t know—we don’t know! You’ve read that 
story till you can’t read it right. Our judgment’s been 
snowed under in the scare of it. That’s so, sure! 
What is it? Why, it’s just a news story,” she cried, 
flinging scornful emphasis into her tone. “It’s a fool 
news story they love to scare folks with, an’ later 
they’ll contradict it without pity for the worry and 
grief it’s caused to the folks who’ve read it. I’ve 
thought and thought and I tell you it’s—it’s not real. 
I don’t believe he’s dead. Here, I’ll show you. I’ll 


58 The Saint of the Speedway 

read it. You sit there and just listen. Will you? 
Then you’ll see.” 

She smoothed the paper again and moved away to 
the open doorway. Then she read in a strident voice 
and commented as she read: 

“ ‘Disaster at Sea? Urgent S O S/ 

“That’s the headline, mum dear, and there’s a question 
marked against it,” she cried. “You get that? Even 
the paper asks the question.” 

The girl had looked up. She was urgently regarding 
the figure at the stove. She was seeking a sign and 
seemed to find it in the fact that her mother had sat up. 

“Listen,” she went on quickly. “You need to get the 
words just as they are. 

“ The S. S. Arbuthnot of Liverpool, bound for Sydney, 
N.S.W., picked up the following wireless on the morning of 
27th inst.: “Sailing-ship Imperial, Bristol. Steering gear 
carried away. Cargo shifted. Plates badly sprung. Sink¬ 
ing. Send help. Possibly last twenty-four hours.” ’ ” 

Again the girl looked up. 

“Then there’s figgers I don’t understand,” she said. 
“Maybe they’re her position. But you see she’s going 
to last twenty-four hours. Anything, I guess, could 
happen in that time. There’s the boats. Maybe if 
there’s storm, it’ll let up. We’ve seen it storm nigh a 
hurricane on the sea back of here and flatten out in 
twelve hours-” 

The mother shook her head despairingly. “I’ve 
thought all that,” she said, in a low voice. Then she 
seemed to pull herself together for a supreme effort. 
“It’s kind of you, Claire, to—to—say all this. I know, 



The Great Disaster 


59 

my dear. You’re feeling just as badly, and you’re try¬ 
ing to help us both. But I feel it right here,” she went 
on, clasping her bosom with both hands. “He’s gone 
—our Jim. It just wasn’t meant for him to get back 
with-” 

“That’s fool talk, mother, and I won’t listen,” Claire 
broke in roughly. “You’ve thought yourself into that. 
But there’s the rest. 

“ ‘The Arbuthnot, steamed at once to the rescue. She ar¬ 
rived on the scene at the position indicated, and, though the 
weather had improved, no trace of the Imperial was dis¬ 
covered/ 

“You see, mum? The weather had improved. 

“ ‘Similarly, the Argonaut, bound from Shanghai to New 
Zealand, picked up the Imperial's message and hurried to the 
rescue. She apparently arrived at the given position some 
hours later. She reports no better success. There was no 
trace of the distressed vessel, and it is presumed she must 
have foundered. The best hope lies in the fact that, with 
the storm abating and twenty-four hours’ grace, the crew 
of the foundering vessel was able to get away in the boats, 
although as yet none of these are reported having been picked 
up. 

“ ‘The Imperial of Bristol is a full-rigged ship of three 
thousand tons engaged in a West Australian coasting trade. 
She carried a crew of eighteen or twenty/ 

“No, no, mum, dear,” Claire cried, forcing a smile 
to her tired eyes. “We mustn’t lose hope. We surely 
mustn’t. Why, even the paper reckons the crew must 
have got away. Just think. Twenty-four hours and 
the storm quitting. You know Jim. I reckon he isn’t 
the boy to lie around waiting to drown. I’d bet our last 
cent they got the boats out, and-” 



60 The Saint of the Speedway 

“What then, Claire ?” cried the mother, in a sudden 
passionate outburst. “Fve looked up those Aggers on 
the map. That boat, with our Jim on it, was right out 
in mid-ocean, thousands of miles from land. Think 
of it, girl, and don’t talk foolish. Mid-ocean! Open 
boats that couldn’t stand half a gale! And they’re not 
reported picked up. I tell you-” 

But the girl had turned to the doorway. A horse¬ 
man had just ridden up and flung out of the saddle. 
It was Jake Forner, Bad Booker’s clerk, and he came 
straight to the doorway where Claire was standing. 

It was a moment of complete reaction. The sight of 
the broad shoulders of the real estate man’s clerk, 
with his dark, mild eyes and mild, almost gentle man¬ 
ner, did that for the troubled women which no effort 
of their own could have achieved. The pressure of 
despairing thought was flung into the background in 
face of the urgency of the thing which this man’s ar¬ 
rival heralded. Even, perhaps, because of the enormity 
of the trouble which had befallen, this man’s coming 
was of greater significance. 

The mother remained unmoving. But Claire bravely 
faced the newcomer with a smile that had no inspira¬ 
tion from any pleasurable emotion. 

“How do, Mr. Forner,” she said, with a cheerfulness 
that had seemed impossible seconds ago. “Guess 
you’ve come along for my mother’s answer? Will you 
come right in?” 

Then she turned swiftly to the woman at the stove. 
She moved over to her and stood close beside her as 
though to protect her as the man obeyed her invita¬ 
tion. 

“I’m kind of sorry, dear,” she said quickly. “I 
didn’t tell you about it before because—because—Mr. 


The Great Disaster 


61 


Booker offered you two thousand dollars for that city 
block he has a mortgage on. Guess Mr. Forner has 
ridden out for his answer.” 

Then she looked straight into the man’s dark eyes 
while she went on speaking to her mother. 

“It’s a real tough proposition,” she said slowly, and 
with all the biting emphasis she could fling into the 
words. “It’s so tough I feel like telling Booker the 
things a girl ’ud hate to say. The block is worth ten 
thousand dollars on the market to-day, which means 
eight thousand dollars to him, and he wants to hand 
you two thousand dollars for it. Are you going to take 
the money or starve—which is Booker’s pleasant alter¬ 
native? I guess we need to decide right away.” 

“Ther’s no need for a decision on those figgers, Miss 
Claire,” Jake said quickly, his usually impassive face 
flushing under the sting of this beautiful girl’s words. 

“How d’you mean?” 

Claire’s demand came sharply. It came in that star¬ 
tled fashion which suggested apprehension lest Booker 
had withdrawn even his usurious offer. 

Jake’s flush had faded out. He stood just within 
the doorway, a curiously ungainly figure in his simple 
city tweed suit which seemed to belong to another 
world than that of this primitive log home built by 
folks who had lived their lives in the golden wilderness 
of the North. His fine eyes were smiling kindly in 
the manner of one who feels himself to be something 
in the nature of a ministering, beneficent angel rather 
than the executioner of the will of an unscrupulous 
usurer. 

“Why, he’s reconsidered his proposal,” he said 
quietly, his smile communicating itself to the rest of 
his face. “I guess he’s sounded the market and feels 


62 The Saint of the Speedway 

he wants to treat you right. Maybe he didn’t just 
remember the exact position of that swell corner block 
when he made his offer to you yesterday. He knows 
about it now,” he went on drily, “and fancies handing 
you eight thousand dollars for complete reversion. I 
kind of think that’s a square deal, Mrs. Carver. Here’s 
his 'brief’ to that effect and the cash, in dollars, is en¬ 
closed. You’ll just need to sign the deed I’ll hand you 
as a preliminary, and the transfer can go through next 
time you’re along in town. Do you feel like closing ?” 

There was much more in the man’s simply spoken 
statement than he realised. There was much more, 
too, in his manner, and somehow the unexpectedness 
of Booker’s change of attitude held Claire silent while 
she regarded the smiling face of the man who brought 
the pleasant news. 

Rebecca Carver’s interest, however, had fallen back 
before the mother grief which had only been deposed 
from its supremacy for a few moments. She made no 
attempt to reply in any form, while her gaze was 
turned once more to her stove. 

Claire suddenly urged her. 

“You’ll accept, mother?” she said quickly, and the 
other nodded. 

Then the girl turned again to the waiting man who 
had withdrawn a letter and the document that must be 
signed, from an inner pocket. 

Claire forced a laugh to her lips. 

“It seems queer, Mr. Forner,” she said shrewdly. 
“Yes, surely we’ll accept, and mother’ll sign. But I’m 
kind of glad you came, and I’m real glad to hear you 
say that piece, especially seeing Booker and I discussed 
the market value of the block and he was fully aware of 
its position. I’d made a guess you’ve somehow had a 


The Great Disaster 


63 


deal to do with changing his mind. It isn’t easy for 
a decent man to sit around while his boss is trying to 
rob a helpless woman. I’ll just get a pen—oh, you’ve 
a fountain pen. Well, mother’ll sign right away, and 
our blessing’ll surely follow you on your way right 
back to the city.” 

Jake Fomer had departed and his coming had done 
more for the two bereft women than either of them 
was aware of. The paralysing effect of the news¬ 
paper story had given place to the reality of things. 
Grief was still driving them hard, but its pressure had 
somehow become less devastating, less numbing—more 
particularly was this the case with Claire. 

She was still standing in the open doorway gazing 
out into the grey light of the dying fall day whence 
she had passed her “God-speed” to the man who had 
executed his mission with so much obvious goodwill 
and pleasure. 

Had the girl possessed half the woman’s vanity to 
which she was entitled, she might have understood 
something of the ungainly man’s feelings in visiting 
her home. But Claire had not as yet discovered in 
herself that dormant self-appreciation which is so es¬ 
sentially an expression of all human nature. She had 
learned little or nothing from the faithful, if inade¬ 
quate, mirror in her small lean-to sleeping quarters. 
Her wide blue eyes were simply a feature with which 
to witness the wonders of the world about her, just as 
her mass of ruddy hair was a something to brush 
laboriously and to fret over. Her slim, girlish figure 
she had only learned to deplore in the arduous labours 
which her life entailed, and its effect upon the men 
with whom she came into contact concerned her not 


64 The Saint of the Speedway 

at all. As yet her woman's charm was a negative 
factor in her life. 

But she was thinking hard as she gazed out upon 
the grey and russet of the fall world about her. Her 
gaze was upon the familiar, wood-clad slopes beyond 
the creek, on which was situated their spent gold claim. 
The slowly meandering waters that murmured their 
ceaseless song on the still air helped to impress the 
loneliness that for the first time in her life had sud¬ 
denly made itself felt. And somehow, it set up an 
almost irresistible longing to flee from the sound of it. 

For all her brave effort to help her mother she knew 
her beloved brother had been completely swept out of 
their lives. The hungry, merciless waters had swal¬ 
lowed him up. She would never, never, never see him 
again, or listen to his quiet, confident words. Never 
again would she witness those unobtrusive little acts 
of devotion which had been so unfailing in their home 
life with him. No, he was gone out of their lives 
completely, utterly. It was the end of a long chapter 
of youthful dreaming. And ahead lay an impenetrable 
future in which care and responsibility must be shoul¬ 
dered, and hers must be the burden of it. 

For a moment something like panic surged in her 
heart. Before, only grief had stirred her. But, of a 
sudden now, grief receded into the background, a de¬ 
pressing shadow always threatening, whilst a wholly 
new emotion took possession of her. Her moment of 
panic passed. Her thought cleared of all confusion 
and a swift, keen resolution descended upon her and 
brought her calmness of spirit. 

Claire had far more in common with her dead father 
than with the gentle woman behind her. In looks, 
in build, in spirit she was essentially her father’s child. 
Never before had the dead man’s qualities had reason 


The Great Disaster 


65 


to display themselves in her. But now it was different. 
In her realisation of her sudden responsibilities, the 
flood-tide of the reckless gambling spirit of her parent 
poured forth. Her brother Jim, in the same spirit, had 
fared forth to the uttermost ends of the earth on a 
bare—almost ridiculous—chance to help them in their 
need. He had achieved. And only the merciless waves 
had robbed him and them of the full fruits of his gam¬ 
bler’s adventure. Could she sit down under the mis¬ 
fortune that had robbed them of a well-loved brother 
and the fortune he had won for them? No. For all 
the fall day was closing, with their fortunes at a lesser 
ebb than the dawn had found them, their need was still 
urgent. And the spirit of her father was awake and 
burning strongly in her as she contemplated its reality. 

She turned abruptly into the darkening room. Her 
gaze took in the figure of her mother still bowed under 
her load of grief. Then it passed to the thick packet 
of notes lying where she had left them on the table. 
They represented the limits of their worldly fortune. 
They were all that stood between them and the starva¬ 
tion Booker had originally designed for them. Her 
eyes lit, and her spirit suddenly buoyed. 

But she turned away and passed quickly into the 
lean-to sleeping room that was hers. What was her 
purpose was of little concern. Her woman’s mind was 
working swiftly, almost feverishly. She stood for a 
while contemplating the trifling wardrobe of gowns 
hanging under a cotton curtain. She examined each 
garment quickly, urgently. Then, with a gesture that 
was half impatient, she permitted the curtain to fall 
back over them and she moved across to the small 
mirror before which she was accustomed to brush her 
hair. 

Here she stood for a while studying the features it 


66 The Saint of the Speedway 

reflected. The message it passed her was for her ears 
alone. Maybe it told her some of those things which 
everybody but she was fully aware of. Maybe she 
only obtained a measure of reassurance. Whatever 
happened in those long, silent moments she turned away 
at last, and something seemed to have transformed 
her. Her eyes were alight. Her shapely lips were 
firmly set, and she passed into the living-room beyond. 
Her whole manner was that of one whose mind is 
irrevocably made up. 

She came to her mother’s side and laid a gentle hand 
on her bowed shoulder. 

“Mum, dear,” she said deliberately, “we’re going to 
move right into Beacon. It’ll set you crazy and me 
too, to stop around out here. There’s things this place 
won’t ever let us forget, an’ we’ve got to forget. 
Maybe we’re mostly feeling dead now. That’s the 
way grief hits us. But we’re both alive and need to 
go right on living. If Jim was here he’d decide for us 
the thing we need to do. He isn’t. So—so I’ve got 
to think for us both and push it through. We got 
eight thousand dollars to feed, an’ clothe, an’ shelter 
us. Maybe it would do for a while. But after—what 
then ?” 

The mother looked up. It was the questioning of 
one incapable of anything else. 

“What do you mean, Claire ? What’re you going to 
do?” 

There was no inspiration, there was even no interest 
in the questions. 

“Do ? Do ?” Claire’s reiteration was thrilling with 
live purpose and something like leaping excitement. 
“Do ? Why, do as father would have done. Do as he 
did time and again.” 


The Great Disaster 


67 


Her strong young fingers unconsciously gripped the 
soft flesh of her mother’s shoulders. Suddenly she 
dropped on her knees beside the other’s chair, while 
she took possession of the work-worn hands lying in 
the lap before her. She raised them both to her young 
lips and covered them with warm kisses of real devo¬ 
tion. Then she held them tightly. 

“Mum, dear, we haven’t a thing but that eight thou¬ 
sand. Not a thing but that. But there’s money— 
money in plenty in Beacon at the Speedway. Father 
always reckoned so when things were bad. And he 
most always found it. I’m going to find it, too, all 
we want. You know what father used to say. He 
taught Jim and me the poker game he played, and he 
taught us good. And in the end, do you mind how I 
took his, and Jim’s, spare cash when they had it? Do 
you? I do. And do you remember the thing father 
always said? He said I’d the poker face, and the poker 
head, and the only luck in the world he was scared to 
buck. It’s that luck we’re going to buck, dear. We’re 
going right into Beacon with our dollars. And I’m 
going to buck the game for all that’s in me. Ther’s 
not a thing else for us. True, ther’ isn’t. Jim’s gone. 
Our Jim! You know it. And, for all I’ve said, I know 
it, too. We’ve no one but ourselves and my luck to 
save us from starving in a fierce, relentless world. 
Are you game, dear? I may do it? Sure I may. I 
can see it in your poor, sad, tired eyes. Yes. It’s 
that, sure, dear, and you can trust me.” 

The girl reached up suddenly. It was a moment of 
supreme emotion. She yielded to it. She caught and 
held her mother’s body in her strong young arms. 
And then came the flood of tears for the grief that 
weighed so heavily on both their devoted hearts. 


CHAPTER V 


Eight Months Later—On the Lias 
River 

HE dark shadows of winter had long since passed 



1 away from the Alaskan world. The almost in¬ 
terminable nights, the pitifully brief days of storm, of 
cold, the drear that literally eats into the heart and 
bones of man, these were left a hazy memory to be 
quickly forgotten, lost in the new season of hope which 
comes with a generous rush. It was a world released 
from months of cruel imprisonment. 

Just inland from the mouth of the Lias River, where 
the broad bosom of its stream was lightly stirred by the 
gentlest of warming spring breezes, a man was at work 
stowing his stout-built canoe with its cargo of camp 
outfit. The vessel was moored against a shelving of 
granite rock. A stout rawhide held it secure to a 
boulder of ponderous dimensions, for it was a barren, 
rocky shore without vegetation of any sort. 

It was a fierce coast line, harsh, unyielding and 
honeycombed with every trap for destruction that the 
wit of Nature could conceive. Shoals and sunken 
rocks littered every inlet, and fierce, sweeping currents 
and cross-currents made the smiling waters a night¬ 
mare of chaos. Then, behind everything, lay those 
merciless reserve forces of sudden wind squalls which 
howled down the mountain slopes without warning, or 
reason, and blasted the coast line into a churning of 
fierce tempest. 


68 


69 


Eight Months Later 

Pitiless in its treachery, this long, tattered coast line 
was for the most part completely shunned by man. 
Yet here, well within the mouth of the Lias River, a 
white man was labouring at his craft, indifferent to 
the terror of his surroundings. 

The man was sturdily built. He was broad and 
stocky and stood something less than six feet in 
height. For all the warming of the clear, spring day 
he was clad in the thick clothing with which the men 
of the North are loth to part until the summer heat 
makes it intolerable. He was a man of something 
over thirty, with a strong face that was clean-shaven, 
or was supposed to be, and with a pair of such pale 
blue eyes as to be devoid of all expression. They 
were curious eyes, curious in that they revealed not a 
glimmer of the mind behind them, curious in that 
their stony expression was unchanging under any and 
every emotion. 

His boat was moored securely, for the tide was 
a-surge and running out to sea. An iron bar, jammed 
in a crevice in the shelving granite, afforded him his 
second mooring and left him free to pursue his labours 
at leisure. 

Behind him gaped a rift in the granite wall which 
rose to a height of several hundred feet. It was obvi¬ 
ously the night shelter in which his camp had been 
made, for, immediately before the entrance, the re¬ 
mains of his fire were still smouldering. Maybe, the 
narrow opening was the entrance to a cavern that 
widened and heightened, for just such caverns, of every 
size and shape, abounded in these iron walls. 

He worked on till the last of his outfit was securely 
stowed and the canoe lay deep in the water. Then he 
passed back to his camp-fire. For a second or two 


70 The Saint of the Speedway 

he glanced about him questioningly, then with the aid 
of a slab of stone he picked up the hot ashes and pro¬ 
ceeded to dump them into the river. The final clear¬ 
ing was done with infinite care and patience, and even 
he resorted to the brushing away of the last signs of 
his fire with a sweeper made of a tied bundle of brush¬ 
wood. 

It was all a little curious. It was all rather furtive. 
It seemed so unnecessary in this wilderness of a no- 
man’s-land. Yet the man paid heed to the obliteration 
of all signs of his encampment with as much care as 
though his very life depended upon the complete cov¬ 
ering of his tracks. Finally, the brushwood bundle was 
added to the burden of his canoe and he cast off his 
moorings. Then, in a moment, he took his place amid¬ 
ships and thrust off with the blade of his double 
paddle. 

The little vessel shot out into the tide with a velocity 
that was almost threatening. But the man was ready 
and skilful and its nose swung round under the pres¬ 
sure of the dipping paddle and headed across current 
making tremendous leeway. Slowly, however, the 
guiding hand made itself felt, and the bow of the craft 
headed up into the stream. Later he would have the 
flood tide to help him, but for a while he must battle 
with a head stream. That was all right. That was 
calculated. It was his urgent desire to escape the 
chances of these dreaded wind squalls which might 
descend at any moment. 

He laboured steadily, creeping up the hither shore 
to avoid the full race of the tide. He hugged the 
granite walls of the canyon through which the river 
cut its way to the ocean. The swirling waters re¬ 
vealed the presence of a chain of sunken rocks through 


71 


Eight Months Later 

which he was threading his way, and only skill and 
keenness of vision could hope to save him from sheer 
disaster. But he pursued his course without hesita¬ 
tion, without a moment of shaken confidence, often 
dallying with death by a margin of less than inches. 
And so it went on for nearly an hour. 

At the end of that time the change he had awaited 
took place. The pace of his progress materially in¬ 
creased. The head pressure lessened. It was then for 
the first time he permitted himself a glance up at the 
smiling sky in the direction of the distant hills to¬ 
wards which he was heading. 

A sigh of satisfaction escaped him. The sign of 
clemency he was seeking was there in the perfect 
cloudlessness. The whole breadth of the sky was a 
brilliant azure. And, furthermore, the critical moment 
of slack water had arrived. Now he knew that the 
hill squalls intended to remain quiescent, and he swung 
his craft clear of the frowning granite cliffs for the 
deep waters. 

The man’s pale eyes were no longer watchful. 
There was no longer any need. With a great depth 
of water under his canoe he could drive her leisurely, 
awaiting the coming flood from the ocean far behind. 

Cy Liskard was lounging in the doorway of his 
cabin. He was smoking contemplatively while his pale 
eyes gazed out over the gravelly, trickling creek below 
him. Near by, secured to a tying post, which was the 
stump of a sapling spruce, two Alaskan ponies were 
waiting ready for the long trail into Beacon Glory. 
One was saddled and bridled, the other was carrying a 
well-laden pack. Both were sturdy, powerful creatures 
still clad in their long winter coats. 


72 The Saint of the Speedway 

It was a still, warm day, with the air full of the 
hum of the insect world. The long tails of the horses 
were swishing with flail-like force to keep the attack¬ 
ing mosquitoes and flies at bay. For the moment the 
sun was lost behind frothing summer clouds, while 
below, the dense forests were silent and still with that 
profound hush which is their prevailing mood. 

It was a perfect scene, typical of the greater foot¬ 
hills where Nature permits nothing human to disturb 
her hush. On every hand hills rose to immense 
heights, bald of head, but densely clad on their lower 
slopes with forests of every shade of green. Soft, and 
gracious, and pleasant to gaze upon, the forests were 
deep, and dark, and well-nigh illimitable. They were 
full of preying animal life, and even in the full of 
daylight the howl of coyote and the harsher bay of 
prowling timber wolf came echoing down the aisles of 
leafless trunks. 

But Cy Liskard was all unconcerned for Nature’s 
sounds, for Nature’s moods. He was by no means 
condemned to a lifelong existence in the world’s dark 
places. He was there by selection and of deliberate 
purpose, and his purpose appeared fairly obvious. For 
there, below him, on the trickling creek, lay the com¬ 
plete, primitive equipment of the gold-seeker’s craft. 

But for all his expressionless gaze was upon these 
things his thought was far away, concerned only with 
its contemplation of the thing which lay ahead at the 
end of the further journey upon which he was about 
to embark. As with all the hardy creatures who seek 
treasure in the remotenesses of the northern world, the 
joy of return to the cities of men was a passionate 
yearning that had no limits. 

In the two weeks since his return from the mouth of 


73 


Eight Months Later 

the Lias River his preparations had been completed, 
and they were more considerable than might have been 
supposed to be necessary. This was his home for the 
time. This was his hunting ground. It was an un¬ 
charted, unregistered gold prospect, and as such it 
was open to invasion or any chance discovery that 
might completely rob him of any proprietary rights he 
might claim. So his preparations had been made 
carefully and in a fashion best calculated to safeguard 
his interests. 

Now with the last detail worked out to his satisfac¬ 
tion he had abandoned himself to a contemplation of 
the good time which he intended Beacon Glory should 
yield him. And for all his pale eyes gave no sign, the 
mind behind them was full of smiling anticipation. 
He was thinking of the burden of gold on the pack- 
saddle, and of the balance of credit at Victor Burns’ 
bank which he knew to be lying there in his name. 
He was thinking of the wine to be bought at Max 
Lepende’s “Speedway”; of the orgy he intended to buy 
there. He was contemplating the glitter of the place 
and the seductive charm of the women with whom he 
would dance. Then there was the great game with its 
never-failing lure, and the thought of this last was 
bound up with the vision of a young girl, beautiful as 
a dream, with flaming hair, and eyes whose colour 
seemed to change with her every mood, now violet, now 
blue, and sometimes almost sea-green. He had only 
seen her once, but memory had never let go of the 
vision. This time he was determined his memories of 
her should be more intimate, whatever the price to be 
paid. 

He abruptly bestirred himself and a sound escaped 
him that was like a laugh. But his harsh face and 


74 The Saint of the Speedway 

baffling eyes gave no sign. He turned and fastened his 
cabin door behind him. Then he moved across to the 
ponies patiently awaiting his pleasure. 

He passed round them quickly, feeling the cinche 
of both. The pack was secure, but his own saddle re¬ 
quired tightening up. He raised the legadero of the 
saddle and pulled mercilessly on the knotted strap. 
Then he kicked the grass-fed belly of the docile crea¬ 
ture to make the tightening closer. Finally, he dropped 
the legadero to its full length and prepared to mount. 

As he did so a blaze of sun shone out from behind 
the summer cloud-bank and the man looked up with 
something like a start. For a second he gazed without 
blinking and his brows depressed as though the sight 
of the sun offended him. Then he glanced away, and 
followed its beam where it threw his own shadow ab¬ 
surdly fore-shortened on the ground. In a moment he 
had raised his foot to the stirrup and swung himself 
clumsily into the saddle, and, snatching up the raw- 
hide quirt hanging on the horn in front of him, he 
slashed viciously and needlessly at both horses. 

The Occidental Exchange was empty of all cus¬ 
tomers. It was in the middle of the afternoon and the 
time just before the mild rush which usually came 
about closing-time. The place was a relic of the ear¬ 
liest days of Beacon Glory, and, unlike most institu¬ 
tions of its kind, it had remained un-rebuilt as the city 
grew. But the fact was, Victor Burns had realised the 
unstable qualities of the first boom, and been con¬ 
tent to await developments. So the place, although 
substantial enough, was small and of no visible con¬ 
sequence for all it was the city’s principal banking 
house. 


Eight Months Later 75 

Burns was at the counter, which completely cut off all 
approach to the premises behind. It was well-gridded 
with substantial iron of a mesh that would have puz¬ 
zled any gun-man to negotiate. It was a grid which 
had been designed out of wide experience, for bank 
hold-ups had been a somewhat favoured pastime in the 
city’s history. 

The banker was talking to his principal teller, a man 
who looked almost too young for his position, but 
what he lacked in years he made up in physique. He 
was a youthful athlete, virile and smilingly self-con¬ 
fident. 

“What’s she paid in this morning?” he asked, in the 
quiet fashion of simple business interest. 

The youth smiled. 

“Why, a mere two thousand dollars,” he said with a 
shrug. 

“Kind of a quiet night, I guess,” Burns returned, 
without any responsive smile. Then he folded his 
arms on the counter, gazing out of the half-open door, 
which was held back by a chain that could be released 
from behind the counter. “It’s queer,” he said. “That 
girl hadn’t more than two red cents back of last fall. 
And now—why, now she can handle more stuff than 
I’ve collected in twenty years. And she handles it 
right, too, that kid. They reckon she’s collected all 
the luck in Beacon. Well, I’d say she’s collected most 
of the business brains with it.” He laughed. “And 
she’s still buying city blocks.” 

“And swell gowns,” added the teller with a grin. 

“Well, I’d say she wouldn’t be the dandy girl she is 
if she didn’t. Say-” 

Bums broke off. A pair of rough ponies had come 


76 The Saint of the Speedway 

to a halt outside. They were in full view through the 
open doorway. 

“Cy Liskard,” he went on after a moment, as he 
beheld a man fling out of the saddle. Then he nodded 
at the gold scales. “Guess we’ll need them, sure. He’s 
a big gold winner.” 

To a practical student of human nature like Victor 
Burns, Cy Liskard was of more than common interest. 
He had come into contact with him in business, and in 
business only. But, in consequence, he saw the man 
in his most interesting aspect. For, in his understand¬ 
ing, a man’s business was the best channel through 
which to discover the real depth of his character. 

He had come to know him as one of the many indi¬ 
vidual gold men of the remoter places which radiated 
about Beacon. The first time he had encountered the 
man was just after winter had closed down, when he 
drove into Beacon with a curious, mongrel team of 
three utterly inadequate dogs, hauling a home-made 
sled which bore a goodly burden of raw gold dust 
of excellent quality. He had come straight to the bank 
and weighed in his treasure. The transaction had been 
made with the customary simple formalities, and the 
man’s credit had been duly opened. At that time Cy 
had only revealed himself to the banker as a surly, 
silent creature who had none of the reckless buoyancy 
of the men who usually came in to sell their dust. 

He had promised, at that time, a further consign¬ 
ment later in the winter when travelling was good, if 
he were able to purchase a really reliable dog team to 
replace the disreputable bunch that had at last suc¬ 
ceeded in bringing him in. 

Victor had ventured a little frank talk on receiving 


77 


Eight Months Later 

this opening. He had complimented the man on his 
strike, and the quality of his gold and had inquired 
if there were other prospectors in his neighbourhood. 
It was then he realised something of the man with 
whom he was dealing. The baffling eyes were raised 
to the banker’s. They looked, or rather stared, coldly 
and hardly into his, while he negatively shook his head. 

“Ther’ ain’t a guy around my lay-out but myself— 
and ther’ don’t need to be,” he said with a snap of his 
square jaws. 

It was the quiet tone of threat in the final words 
that enlightened the banker to that which lay behind the 
man’s mask-like face, and he had made no further 
effort to interest his customer. 

Since that visit there had been another about mid¬ 
winter. The man blew into the bank on the swirl of 
a blizzard that lasted for three days. At that visit his 
credit had been more, much more than trebled. And 
now had come a third trip into the city and Burns was 
deeply intrigued. 

The man thrust his way in through the doorway 
bearing two lashed bundles, one under each arm. 
They were large and obviously of considerable weight, 
and his movements were swift almost to hastiness. 

It was to the banker’s thinking an unintentional out¬ 
ward sign of his relief at the safe completion of his 
journey and the final depositing of his treasure. 

“Howdo, Mr. Liskard,” he greeted the man, as he 
laid his bundles on the edge of the counter. “Make 
a good trip in?” Then he smiled on the two bundles. 
“You look to be good an’ busy on your patch.” He 
turned to the teller, who was looking on interestedly. 
“The scales, Rickards.” 

“ ’Tain’t bad on the trail this time o’ year,” Cy ad- 


78 The Saint of the Speedway 

mitted, with more than usual readiness, as he cut the 
lashings of his burden with a vicious-looking sheath- 
knife. 

The banker watching him noted the details of his 
powerful body under the thick pea-jacket that was 
closely buttoned over it. He watched the rough hands, 
with thumbs stumped short in their top joints, and 
with the flattest, shortest, ugliest nails he had ever 
seen, as he ripped the bonds asunder. Then his gaze 
lifted again to the hard face, with its dirty stubble of 
beard and whisker, clearly unshaven on his journey, 
and his shrewd mind was swiftly estimating. He 
reckoned, by the growth of whisker, the man must have 
been on the trail at least three weeks, if he had started 
clean-shaven. 

But the two bundles were open and the canvas bags 
tied at their necks were revealed bulging with their 
precious contents. In a moment the banker’s interest 
became absorbed. 

“That all dust?” he asked quickly. Then he added: 
“Some stuff there—sure.” 

Cy nodded without speaking. He cut the fastenings 
and passed the bags through the grid which Burns had 
flung open. 

“Weigh it,” he said. 

The man’s voice was harsh and his demand sharp, 
and the banker passed the bags to the teller at the 
scales. 

No further word passed while the youth manipu¬ 
lated the weights, and Cy watched his every movement 
with an intensity of concentration that brought his 
dark brows closely together over his curious eyes. 

The gold was emptied into the scale, which only 
took a portion of one bag. The teller noted the weight 


79 


Eight Months Later 

and emptied the scale into one of the bank’s own 
leather bags. Six times the scale was filled to- over¬ 
flowing, while the silent men looked on at the dull, 
red-yellow of the gold this man had brought. It was 
dust and nuggets, but mostly nuggets of splendid pro¬ 
portions. 

Cy Liskard was leaning on the counter with folded 
arms, and when the weighing was completed and the 
teller bent over his task of working out the sum, he 
drew a deep sigh as though in relief that his task had 
been completed. 

Victor looked up at the sound. 

'‘Kind of makes a boy glad to get it safe into the 
bank. In these days of hold-ups around Beacon it’s 
jumpy play toting a bunch of dust around. Say, that’s 
swell stuff. Good an’ red, like the stuff the boys col¬ 
lected on ‘Eighty Mile’ years back. I haven’t seen that 
colour anywhere around Beacon till you hit along with 
your bunch last fall. Are you registered ?” 

Cy’s gaze was withdrawn from the moving pen of 
the teller. “Not on your life.” 

Burns raised his eyebrows. 

“That’s taking a chance,” he demurred. “Aren’t 
you scared folks’ll jump in on you?” 

The man made a sound like a laugh. But his face 
was unmoving. 

“Not a little bit,” he said roughly. “I guess ther’ 
ain’t a guy in Beacon with the guts to get out to the 
creek I got staked. If he’d the guts he couldn’t make 
it. An’ if he made it he’d forgit wakin’ when the day¬ 
light come around. No, sir. I ain’t registered, an’ 
don’t figger to. I ain’t handin’ a map of my strike to 
any cursed official. I ain’t handin’ the story to a deaf 
mute. I got my patch, an’ I’ll keep it. I nigh sweated 


80 The Saint of the Speedway 

blood to locate it. Register an’ haf the world would 
get right on my back. I’ll take all the chances, an’ God 
help the son of a mule who gets within a mile of it. 
What’s the tally?” 

The teller read out the figures in a tone of wonder¬ 
ment his youth could not conceal. 

“Eighty-two thousand dollars and twenty-five cents,” 
he said, and passed the figures to his chief for verifica¬ 
tion. 

Cy nodded, while the banker examined the paper. 

“That’s about my reckoning,” he said. “I’ll be 
totin’ another bunch along when I’m through with my 
summer wash. I’ll just draw a dope of ten thousand 
right away. Here’s the brief.” He passed a cheque 
across the counter and waited to receive the money. 

Burns looked up. 

“Yes,” he said, seriously. “That’s the reckoning, 
sure. I congratulate you. You certainly have a swell 
claim.” 

Cy nodded. “I certainly have,” he agreed shortly. 

The teller passed the roll of bills and he and his 
chief watched their customer bestow it in a hip pocket. 
As he did so he revealed a heavy gun strapped about 
his waist, and Victor, at least, realised it was there as 
no mere ornament. Cy had said, “God help the son 
of a mule who gets within a mile of it,” and somehow 
this watching student of human nature realised that 
“God’s help” would certainly be required in the circum¬ 
stances. This man was not the sort to stand at trifles. 

Cy took his departure without the least ceremony, 
and it was only the banker’s “So long” that forced 
common politeness from him. They saw him mount 
one of the two ponies outside, and they heard the 
coarse oath with which he urged the weary creature 


Eight Months Later 81 

forward. Then came the sound of the heavy slash of 
a quirt and the horses clattered away. 

“A mighty tough proposition,” Burns laughed 
quietly. “All the gold in that boy’s claim wouldn’t 
tempt me to try and track him to his hiding-hole. I 
guess he comes out of the mountains. An’ maybe 
they’re somewhere across the border—seeing he’s not 
registered. Well, there it is. Guess it’s no worry of 
mine. We’re here to collect gold, and I’d say we’ve 
collected a swell bunch from that boy.” 

The teller laughed. 

“Guess there’s certainly little else to collect from 
him, anyway,” he said significantly. 


CHAPTER VI 


A Bunch of Humanity 

I T was the day of celebration at the Speedway. It 
was the anniversary of its first opening and Max 
Lepende had ordained that once a year high revel 
should hold sway in commemoration of the foundation 
of his fortunes. The Speedway was to Beacon Glory 
what the Casino is to Monte Carlo. It was perhaps a 
good deal more. But then, Monte Carlo is in the eyes 
of society and Beacon Glory had somehow contrived 
a position on the map more or less unrecorded. On 
the whole the “Glory” citizens, as they loved to call 
themselves, were well enough satisfied with their posi¬ 
tion. It was convenient for many reasons, not the least 
of which was the feeling of security it gave to most of 
them, and the general immunity they enjoyed from the 
legitimate consequences of offences committed against 
society in earlier life. 

Max, being of Italian extraction and flamboyant in 
temperament, had built and designed it in the manner 
that most appealed to him. The place was literally a 
Bacchanalian temple, lavish with white and gold and 
brilliant lights. It was gaudy with red furnishings 
and glittering glass, and, generally speaking, was as 
good an example of a whited sepulchre as the riot of 
debased human passions, and the lavish brush of the 
decorator could make of otherwise perfectly innocent 
woodwork. 

The place stared out on the city’s main thoroughfare 
82 


A Bunch of Humanity 83 

two blocks below the Plaza Hotel, a wide-fronted, be- 
pillared edifice of two stories. In the brilliant summer 
sunlight its whitened walls looked dispiritedly grey and 
shabby, but in the dark months of winter its blaze of 
electric light transformed it into a lure which the people 
of Beacon Glory found impossible to resist. 

Max had named it “The Palace of Pleasure.” But 
then Max wore a pointed beard which concealed a pair 
of full, red, something sensuous lips. Furthermore, he 
wore the rest of his hair long, and a large, flowing 
black cravat adorned the evening clothes he always 
appeared in when presiding over the nightly orgy ob¬ 
taining in his establishment. Beacon Glory, being 
frank, apt and unashamed in its downrightness of 
phraseology, had promptly dubbed it “The Speed¬ 
way,” and, in the end, the ultra-artistic mind of its 
founder had to yield, and as the “Speedway” it was 
known throughout the length and breadth of southern 
Alaska. 

Max’s annual celebration was not lightly to be 
missed, and, generally speaking, Beacon Glory was not 
given to missing anything at other people’s expense. 
Besides, Max would be offended if his available cus¬ 
tomers absented themselves on this his especial night. 
Then, too, why should it be missed? There would be 
a dinner of exceptional quality in the grand dining- 
hall—free to invited guests. There would be a flood 
of wine of the best quality. The company, for once, 
would smoke the best cigars and lap up expensive, 
sticky cordials. And it would all be free. Oh, no. 
There was no missing it by those men favoured with 
an invitation. 

There would be no women at the dinner; that was 
where Max displayed his fineness of discrimination. 


84 The Saint of the Speedway 

He knew his men. And perhaps his women—some of 
them. The women would be there for the dance after¬ 
wards—they would be given a good time, but Max 
sternly demanded that this, his evening of evenings, 
should start—fair. Whatever the later developments, 
the night should at least start with such dignity and 
decorum as an assorted line in evening clothes could 
impress upon the manhood of a more or less disreputa¬ 
ble out-world city. 

The Plaza was unusually full in the late afternoon 
on this day of celebration. The weather was hot and 
windless, and the spring mosquitoes were merciless. 
But the open verandah, overlooking the main avenue, 
was liberally patronised. Mosquitoes were part of the 
daily life of Beacon Glory, and their worst torture was 
insufficient to disturb its citizens out of their routine. 

Jubilee Hurst and his partner, Burt Riddell, were 
amongst those foregathered. They were nominally 
gold men of the type which is drawn from the big 
cities of civilisation. They come at the call of adven¬ 
ture and easy money, and in the end, generally seek 
the latter by means of an active application of wit 
rather than of muscle. Then there was the well-liked, 
amiable and indifferent Doctor Finch, Beacon’s lead¬ 
ing man of medicine. He was reposing his rotund 
figure in a chair of doubtful stability, tilted at a perilous 
angle, while his heavily-booted feet decorated the rail 
of the verandah. Abe Cranfield, the Plaza’s esteemed 
proprietor, short, stout, and with a thrusting chin whis¬ 
ker, was squatting on a low stool many sizes too small 
for him. And, reposing comfortably in a prolonged 
cane deck chair, with a Rye highball on an adjacent 
table easily within reach, reclined Victor Burns of the 
Occidental Bank. 


A Bunch of Humanity 85 

None of them had as yet disguised themselves under 
the uniform required for the evening’s entertainment 
to which they were all invited. That was an evil they 
preferred to postpone till the last minute. They one 
and all preferred to remain the plain examples of Bea¬ 
con’s citizenship they really were as long as possible. 

The irrepressible Jubilee Hurst made no pretence of 
his reluctance, and he was airing his views with that 
simple freedom which he claimed as his right at all 
times. 

“You know, boys,” lie said, smashing a bunch of 
mosquitoes on the back of his bull-like neck, “Max is 
mostly a decent citizen for all he’s a Dago. But his 
craze for patent shoes and hair oil gets me all the time. 
You know, there’s no sort of reason in a guy acting 
the way he does behind a bow-tie fit for a Dago revo¬ 
lutionary, and wearing a sheath-knife on his hip fit to 
carve up whale blubber. Maybe, with an elegant souse 
in prospect he fancies us boys fixed the way he gets us 
because most of our party suits were invented before 
the possibilities of the hip-pocket were guessed about. 
I’d say the Speeedway’s no sort of joint to fall into 
without a whole darn arsenal of weapons lying around 
to your hand most all the time, and, I’ll sure be feeling 
like a lamb at slaughter time settin’ around disguised 
like a first-class waiter, while lie belches up his annual 
hash of the pleasure it hands him having us suckers 
around, and how grieved he is the cemetery’s added to 
its stock of fancy mausoleums by way of advertising 
the amenities of his darn booth.” 

He smiled amiably round upon the company, and 
took half a highball at a gulp. And his black, twinkling 
eyes finally settled on his partner’s long and grievously 
unsmiling face. 


86 The Saint of the Speedway 

“It’s all right, boy,” he said, grinning genially. 
“You needn’t to feel the way you’re lookin’. I got 
two boiled shirts, and seein’ you’re a partner of mine, 
I’ll share ’em with you for haf a dollar.” 

Burt raked at the calf of one hairy leg exposed about 
his sock suspender to the attacking mosquitoes. 

“Oh, beat it,” he cried irritably. “You wouldn’t 
miss a thing the Speedway could hand you, if Max 
reckoned to have you around in your underpants. 
You make me tired.” He turned to the banker. “I 
got around the ‘Glory Hole’ this morning. It’s burnt 
out stark.” 

The banker sipped his highball and gazed thought¬ 
fully out at the far hills. 

“I’m glad,” he said quietly, after a moment’s de¬ 
liberation. 

It was coldly said and Abe Cranfield looked round 
at the speaker quickly. 

“I can’t say I’m glad for any feller to get burnt out,” 
he exclaimed warmly. “The Aurora bunch are acting 
mighty gay. Wher’s it goin’ to stop ? Is it the Plaza 
or the Speedway next? How am I to know when 
I’m offending their notions ? Clancy Roscoe had been 
runnin’ his saloon since ever Beacon started. I can’t 


“It was a brothel,” Burns spoke sharply. Then he 
laughed quietly. “See here, Abe,” he said in a con¬ 
ciliatory fashion, “I guess you hold a brief for Clancy 
and his Glory Hole because he’s in your line of busi¬ 
ness—as far as liquor’s concerned. You sort of feel 
it’s interference with lawful liberty, and maybe, that 
way you’re right. But there’s no right-minded boy to 
this city’ll feel that the Clan has done anything but a 
service to the credit of our burg. Clancy was warned. 



A Bunch of Humanity 87 

He showed me his written warning two weeks back 
and he was right up in the air. And his warning was 
straight and right. It said, ‘Clear out your women 
and run your liquor joint straight.’ It gave him two 
weeks. Well, he refused. And I got my notions of the 
feller who makes his pay out of that sort of thing. He 
banks with me and I can’t help it. But I’m glad his 
shanty’s gone, and there are some more I’d like to see 
treated the same.” 

“Sounds like he was the Chief Light of the Aurora,” 
laughed Jubilee. 

Burns nodded. 

“Maybe it does, boy. But think back to the days 
when you were your mother’s kid and you’ll think like 
me. No, I guess there’s a worry back of that Clan, 
but not when they burn up joints like the ‘Glory 
Hole.’ ” 

Doc Finch nodded over his cigar stump. 

“I’m with you, Victor,” he said seriously. 

“I’m sure you are, Doc.” 

“Well, what of Max’s show?” Abe was still con¬ 
sidering possibilities from a personal point of view. 
“What of the women there? Are things better there 
when you get right down to bedrock? Say, I want to 
laff. Ther’s vice to the square inch right around that 
dance hall ’ud pave hell a furlong a minute. But then, 
Max could buy half the city,” he finished up bitterly. 

“I can’t stand for that,” the unsmiling face of Burt 
was suddenly transformed. He was grinning but in 
real earnest. “The Speedway’s the thing folks make 
it,” he said hotly. “It’s the only real joy spot in a city 
that’s forgot how to laff. You can help yourself to 
a portion of life there without a meal ticket. Ther’s 
light and laughter there if you don’t get around with 


88 The Saint of the Speedway 

a grouch. You can burn money there, or make a 
bunch, if you’re bright enough to beat the other feller. 
Ther’s women who’re foolish, and women who ain’t, 
and ther’s boys who’re a real imitation of men, and 
hogs disguised under a bank roll. If the Clan was to 
get after Max’s joint it ’ud be me for the coast and the 
first barge for the south. No, Abe, if ther’s any sort 
of method back of those guys in their white shirts and 
pointed sky-pieces you and Max can sit around without 
a worry. An’, anyway, this bum hotel couldn’t have 
claim to vice, even in the dreams of a bughouse in¬ 
mate.” 

Jubilee chuckled as a preliminary to one of his char¬ 
acteristic outbursts. Then he took in the whole com¬ 
pany in his expansive, headlong way. 

“Burt’s got a hell of a hunch, an’ I won’t have to 
charge him haf-a-dollar for that shirt,” he laughed 
delightedly. “My, Abe, but he got you plumb in the 
pit of the stomach. And he was right, sure. I guess 
you can throw all the dirt you fancy in Beacon without 
ever a chance of missin’ things. But the Speedway 
ain’t available for that playing without hurtin’ folks 
who’re mostly your friends. What ’ud we do without 
the Speedway? Why, die plumb to death setting 
around your verandah, smashin’ skitters. I can’t think 
of dying worse.” 

The grin died out of his eyes, and a curious sort of 
earnestness replaced it as he went on: 

“No, Abe,” he said, sitting up abruptly and spread¬ 
ing out his lean, tenacious hands, which were carefully 
manicured. “Get a grip on yourself and think of the 
women-folk who get glad there at night. Do you 
grudge ’em? No, sir, you don’t. You couldn’t. It’s 
not in you. You know a woman hasn’t a swell time 


A Bunch of Humanity 89 

in life when you think about her. And in Beacon she 
wouldn’t get any time at all.” He laughed again. 
“We’re told the first woman was made out of man’s 
‘scrap.’ Maybe that’s how it comes she’s had to put 
up with man’s ‘left-over’ ever since.” He shook his 
head. “To my thinking, woman’s never had a better 
time than a yaller pup ever since she disappointed her 
folk with her sex. It seems to me a poor sort of life 
fixing a man’s hash so he don’t take too big a chance 
on his life policy. Think how she needs to smile every 
time a feller hands her out five cents to make vacation 
on, same as if she was pleased. Chores seem to be 
the limit of woman’s joy in life, and I guess she’ll go 
right on chasing kids’ noses with a swab till she jerks 
up at the graveyard. She’ll keep on trying to feed her 
whole bunch on the change out of a dollar, and the 
promises her man hands out to her like dead leaves 
in the fall. She’s got a hell of a life, even if it’s only 
she’s expected to swallow a man’s lies whole and sit 
around foolish waiting for ’em to come true. No, 
Abe, don’t you ever go for to rob her of a moment’s 
pleasure. She’ll mother you sick, and mother you 
welL She’ll lie for you and fight for you. And when 
she’s broke her heart keepin’ folks from lynching you, 
she’ll tidy you all she knows and pass you into the 
crematorium in the hope of making you a real sanitary 
proposition for the first time in your darn life. Ther’s 
all sorts of ’em find joy in the Speedway. Some are 
foolish, but,” he finished up, turning his perfectly seri¬ 
ous eyes in the direction of the great dance hall, 
“ther’s those who—aren’t.” 

At that instant a raucous honk! honk! echoed down 
the wide, dust-laden, unkempt thoroughfare, and every 
eye was turned in the direction. 


90 The Saint of the Speedway 

Out of a dust cloud a high-powered automobile 
raced down towards them, rolling and bumping over 
the perilous unevennesses of the road, regardless of 
every consequence. It was painted a curious rich red, 
a big saloon body with black running gear and black 
roof. It contained only two women, both expensively 
clad, one of whom had a wealth of red hair that seemed 
to match the colour of the vehicle. Every man on the 
verandah was craning. Every eye was watching the 
car’s reckless progress. And as it passed, leaving them 
almost lost under a fog of dust, it was Doc Finch who, 
returning his feet to their resting-place on the verandah 
rail, voiced something of the thought that occurred to 
the mind of each. 

“No,” he said, smiling amiably round on the com¬ 
pany, “there’s no gang, or clan, or bunch of disorderly 
toughs in Beacon Glory that ’ud dare to do harm to 
the Speedway so long as St. Claire Carver is its patron 
saint.” 

The banker nodded prompt agreement. 

“That’s a cinch, Doc,” he said. “She’s got every 
man in Beacon just where any good woman could 
want him.” 

Abe concurred promptly, if grudgingly. 

“She’s a real dandy an’ a good spender,” he ad¬ 
mitted, “and she’s got the whole fancy of Beacon as 
well as its luck-” 

“Luck?” Victor Burns drained the remains of his 
highball to wash the dust of the automobile from his 
throat. “She’s made a pile that would set some of the 
Wall Street guys screaming. Say!” He laughed. 
Then he became serious. “And talking of gold and 
things,” he went on, “there’s colour coming in just 
now from outside. A boy bought himself a credit at 



A Bunch of Humanity 91 

my place this afternoon for eighty thousand odd, and 
it was the sort of dust they used to collect on ‘Eighty- 
Mile’ years back.” 

The banker watched the almost electrical effect of 
his words on a company to whom gold was the begin¬ 
ning and end of everything. Discussion of the Speed¬ 
way and its morals, and even of its beautiful patron 
saint, was forgotten. Every man at once sat agog. 
And even Jubilee Hurst, who was mainly a sheer gam¬ 
bler, who had been gazing down the avenue after the 
now-vanished automobile, eagerly sought information. 

“Where did it come from?” he asked, without hesi¬ 
tation or scruple. 

Burns shook his head. 

“Search me,” he said with a laugh. 

“Who’s the guy?” demanded Burt. 

“Guess I’m a banker.” 

“Can’t you hand us a thing?” inquired Abe. 

“Not a thing but just that,” Burns said quietly. 
“It’s the third big bunch of dust come in from the 
same place, by the same boy, in six months. And 
there’s more coming. I wanted you fellows to know 
about it because it’s my job to collect the stuff, and the 
more folks know about it the more they’ll worry to get 
after it. There’s big gold coming into Beacon, and I 
guess that’s the best news you-” 

He broke off. Ivor McLagan had appeared in the 
open glass doorway leading on to the verandah. 

“Say,” he cried, after a moment’s pause, “I hadn’t 
a notion you were in town, Ivor.” 

Jubilee laughed. 

“You ain’t much of a guesser, Burns,” he inter¬ 
jected. “Why wouldn’t McLagan be along in? Is he 
missing Max’s show any more than you and me ? But 



92 The Saint of the Speedway 

say, Mac, tell us about oil. We just been hearing gold 
from Burns and now we want oil. The oil king is 
right with us, folk. He's right in our midst,” he cried, 
with his ready laugh. “The soft yellow stuff gets us 
all the time, but nice, black, sticky oil’s only a short 
cut to it. You’re the guy to grease the wheels of Bea¬ 
con right. Gold won’t be a circumstance when you 
open out one of your gushers. Sit around, man, and 
hand us news that’ll help us digest Max’s Dago feast 
right. Talk to us of options and borings and coal 
mountains, and all that sort of truck you can’t eat and 
I’ll buy you a highball right now, and swear to set up 
a swell piece by way of epitaph on your mausoleum 
when you’ve got mired to death in the juice you’re 
going to flood Beacon with. You’re our only hope 
of-” 

“And a darnation poor one, Jubilee,” McLagan in¬ 
terrupted, “that is, right up to now.” He pulled up a 
chair and leaned his great body over it, while his plain 
face smiled indulgently on the irrepressible man who 
never failed to amuse him. “But we’re right on oil. 
We’ve hit a—trickle. A hell of a fine—trickle.” 

Abe sat up. 

“Is that right?” he demanded, his eyes lighting. 

Ivor nodded. 

“It surely is, Abe. You’ll be re-building this hog¬ 
pen in a year’s time and you’ll need to add a hundred 
rooms.” 

Burns leant forward in his chair. 

“Is it going to be big?” 

“A real flood—if I’m not foolish.” 

“Will you talk to-night at Max’s feed?” inquired 
Doc Finch, a staunch believer in publicity* 

“Not a whisper.” 



A Bunch of Humanity 93 

“Why not?” inquired Burt Riddell. 

“Because I got a deal too much that’s worth say¬ 
ing,” McLagan laughed. “The only time it’s safe to 
talk is when you haven’t.” 

Jubilee chuckled appreciatively. 

“I’m buying that highball right away, Abe,” he cried. 
“And make it for the whole darn house, if it’s my last 
buck. McLagan’s right. Don’t shout till you want. 
Then shout like hell. Folk’ll hand it you if it’s only 
to keep you quiet while they shout. Oil? And it’s 
coming? Are there any options lying around? Are 
we to be in on the ground floor, Mac, or is the darn 
door bolted and locked?” 

McLagan shook his head. 

“Sure it’s locked and I’ve hidden up the key,” he 
said quietly. “My prospect’s a tight one. You see, 
it’s been a long trail and I’m taking no chances. Easy 
money’s fine for those who make it. But I’m not pass¬ 
ing easy money to a soul. Guess I’ll go and clean up 
for Max’s party.” He laughed pleasantly. “And I’ll 
collect your highball on the way, boy. So long.” 


CHAPTER VII 


The Speedway 

M AX LEPENDE, for all Jubilee Hurst’s estimate 
of him, was a creature of unusual mentality. 
His ability was quite beyond question; his morals were 
something of a less buoyant nature; while his poses 
were wholly Latin in their extravagance, and contrived 
to set up an impenetrable armour against those who 
sought to discover the real man underneath. 

The Speedway was the reality of his own dream. 
Its inspiration was a product of memories and experi¬ 
ences of early life in a land of beauty and an 
atmosphere of bygone glories. And as such it was a 
sufficient anachronism in its present setting to grip the 
imagination of the crude minds which made up the 
clientele he hoped to pillage in the outland territory 
he had chosen for his hunting ground. 

He boasted the refinements of his designing, and 
was mercilessly jealous of the Speedway’s fame. The 
attitude of other minds was less benevolent towards it. 
The citizens of Beacon Glory were prone at all times to 
downrightness, and, consequently, they set no halo 
about the place. But they delighted in the licence it af¬ 
forded them for indulgence in pleasant surroundings. 

The fronting colonnade of five gaudily decorated 
pillars meant nothing to the citizens of Beacon Glory. 
Yet they sometimes marvelled at the costliness and the 
extent of the white paint that looked so drab in the 
sunlight. Some never even paused to consider the rich 
94 


95 


The Speedway 

carpetings they trod underfoot in the gaming rooms, 
or the wonderful block-flooring over which their heavy 
boots glided in the great dance hall. But there were 
few enough who failed to appreciate the raised private 
boxes which lined the walls of the latter, furnished as 
they were with drinking tables, and deeply upholstered 
chairs and divans, and hung with curtains to be drawn 
at will. Then there was the glitter of innumerable 
mirrors, and the broad staircase with its carved balus¬ 
trades leading to the rooms above, where every game 
from “crap dice” to “baccarat” could be indulged in. 

The general run of the men and women of Beacon 
Glory demanded a good time. And the Speedway, 
under Max’s consummate guidance and absolute con¬ 
trol, provided for their every need in this direction. 
Oh, yes, Max saw to that. For underneath his patient, 
smiling veneer, and his pose of polished respectability, 
he possessed a hard, unyielding, astute commercial soul, 
greedy for the last cent of profit he could extract from 
his customers. 

Hardened trail men, no less than educated men from 
the cities of culture in the outer world, yielded to the 
seductions of the Speedway. So did the women, who 
regarded it as a part of their daily lives. The charm 
of subdued lights in the gaming rooms; the dazzle and 
glitter at the gilded bars, and in the dance hall; the 
subtle, rather sickly perfume of the place, the value of 
which Max so perfectly understood; these things all 
contributed to make it a veritable temple for the spirit¬ 
ual debasement of its devotees. 

On the night of its birthday the Speedway was swept 
and garnished to the last degree. Fashion and custom 
were no less strong in Beacon than in the more enlight¬ 
ened dwelling-places of humanity. Every visitor to the 


96 The Saint of the Speedway 

place would be clad for the occasion. No woman 
would dare to appear for the festival without some 
sort of a new gown. And as for the men, knee-boots 
would be taboo, and heavy working shoes were under 
the ban. Every man who was accustomed to resort 
there would be raiding the shoe store the day before, 
and, failing evening suits as part of their wardrobes, 
certainly only the best they possessed could be tol¬ 
erated. 

It was truly a splendid function and possessed all 
the outward display with which humanity loves to hide 
up the wealth of moral blemish to which it is unfor¬ 
tunately and unfailingly heir. The place was super¬ 
heated and the air was heavy-laden, and Max, as he 
welcomed his customers and guests, radiated smile, 
and perfume, and punctilio without discrimination. 

Jubilee Hurst, observing him after enduring his own 
portion of the formalities at the foot of the great stair¬ 
case in the central hall, realised to the full the delicious 
mockery of it all. He whispered his comment to Ivor 
McLagan, who stood beside him, clad in the well-cut 
evening suit that was anathema to his downright soul. 

“You know, Mac, there’s a heap to Max of the 
feline species. He’s a mitt on him that ’ud shame 
velvet, and a tongue to match, and I feel plumb sick in 
the pit of the stomach, and like handling a newly 
hooked eel, when I get near enough to listen to his 
fancy dope, and feel the tips of his polished fingers in 
my hand. Get a line on him bowing around to folks 
whose bank roll he’s made his life’s study. See his 
Dago antics. You’d guess he loves us all to death, 
while all the time he’s out for plunder like any ‘hold-up’ 
that ever flagged a western express. And we’re all 
grinning back at him to schedule. And we’re all saying 


97 


The Speedway 

a piece we’ve sort of learnt by heart from years of 
repetition. Can you beat it? No. I’ll eat his darn 
feed an’ likely get full up to the back teeth with the 
liquor he’s going to hand out. But to me it’s simply 
the change out of the dollars he’s collected out of my 
wad over a long period of darn foolishness. It isn’t 
a thing else, unless it’s to say I’m just one of the 
mutts of life mired at the wrong end of things, an’ 
can’t afford to act diff’rent.” 

McLagan smiled. 

“Don’t worry a thing, boy,” he said easily. “It’s 
just the game of things we’ve all of us got to play more 
or less as we beat it along the trail to the crematorium. 
I’d certainly say Max don’t need showing a thing. I 
want to laff.” 

But for all the bitterness of spirit the Italian’s antics 
might have inspired in those who saw through the 
mockery of it all, the whole comedy looked to be playing 
out as the master-mind had designed. It was ordained 
that the gathering at the Speedway, on this one night 
in the year, should be a vivid landmark impressed upon 
the minds of the city’s people, from the banquet to the 
invited guests, to the ball, and the great gamble that 
would later take place at the tables. There would be 
impressive decorum for just as long as decorum could 
be maintained. And after that, circumstances and the 
proprietor’s tact, and, failing that, his powers of other 
persuasion, would deal with every contingency that 
arose. There would be nothing allowed to occur on 
that occasion calculated to besmirch the record of the 
place. That was Max’s purpose. A purpose from 
which he had no intention of departing. 

The banquet was over and the company had dis- 


98 The Saint of the Speedway 

persed in such directions as individual inclination 
prompted. Max had thrown his annual shower of 
verbal bouquets, and had drunk in the responsive 
adulation and laudatory expressions which custom de¬ 
manded from his guests. The courses had been dis¬ 
posed of by healthy appetites which refused to be dis¬ 
guised, and an excellent brand of champagne had 
flowed in no niggard measure to lubricate faculties 
that were easily enough set in motion for full apprecia¬ 
tion of the night’s riot. The ballroom was already 
thronged with dancers of every grade of ability, and 
the lure of the tables had claimed their devotees. 
While not a few were sufficiently attracted by the mag¬ 
netic glitter of the bars where the white-clad bar¬ 
tenders were under orders to dispense of their best 
mixtures without charge. 

Ivor McLagan and some of his friends had passed 
over the attractions of everything else for the shaded 
lights of the poker hall. It was a spacious apartment 
with panelled walls of dark green to match the colour 
of the baize-covered tables. It was carpeted thickly 
with oriental reds and blues, and such woodwork as 
there was was gleaming white. The tables were spaced 
evenly round the walls, with one only somewhat larger 
than the rest, occupying the centre of the room. The 
place was entered from a landing just beyond a wide, 
decorated archway hung with curtains, and this, in 
turn, gave on to the head of the great staircase. 

It was a room with which little enough fault could 
be found. For, apart from the charm of its shaded 
rose lighting, it was governed by a number of unwrit¬ 
ten laws so that its company could pursue its devotions 
without let or hindrance, or any disturbing element. 
The chip bureau was presided over by a seemingly 


99 


The Speedway 

voiceless autocrat, while velvet-footed waiters minis¬ 
tered to the thirst of everybody in the efficient manner 
of well-drilled club servants. It was all admirably 
calculated to yield the best possible profit out of a 
mixed company which consisted of men and women of 
substance and undeniable beauty, down to the rough- 
clad trail men who sold their “dust” for chips, and 
a gambling fraternity of every shade of colour and 
almost every race. 

Outwardly it was a sheer delight for those who were 
sufficiently young and reckless. It was a place to grip 
the imagination. Inwardly, or underneath its surface 
of pleasant seeming, there was perhaps a different as¬ 
pect. There was not one of the immaculate waiters 
who was not a trained athlete in his ability to deal with 
the toughest human violence, and each man was fully 
armed with an automatic pistol or some other lethal 
weapon. Then the voiceless president at the chip 
bureau was a dead shot, and had under his fingers a 
system of switches which could summon any aid he 
needed and close every exit of the establishment, at an 
instant’s notice. 

McLagan had made no attempt to cut into any of the 
games that had already started. For the moment he 
and the rotund Dr. Finch and Jubilee Hurst were on¬ 
lookers. Jubilee was sitting on an unoccupied table, 
while the two others were smoking Max’s cigars, 
watching the game in progress at the next table. 

The doctor and Jubilee seemed more deeply inter¬ 
ested than was the oil man. A poker game was irre¬ 
sistible to Jubilee at all times. Doc Finch had par¬ 
taken of a sufficiently good dinner to find interest in 
anything, provided it was witnessed from a comforta¬ 
ble chair. But McLagan’s attention undisguisedly 



100 The Saint of the Speedway 

wandered to the curtained entrance every time the 
hangings were drawn aside to admit a newcomer. 

He was a keen poker player, but only as a pastime. 
And he rarely drifted into any of the really big games 
that were played at the Speedway. Just now he had 
no desire at all to participate in any of them. He was 
by no means a part of the Speedway's human freight. 
But for months, now, he had never failed to spend his 
evenings in its scented atmosphere when business de¬ 
manded his presence in the city. 

Jubilee shook his carefully oiled head in response to 
McLagan’s challenge. 

“No, I’m not cutting in yet,” he said. Then he 
added with a grin, indicating the table in front of them, 
“Guess I couldn't make a one-night hotel bill out of a 
bunch like that. See that guy open a fi’ dollar jack 
pot, an’ throw in at the first bet? They're a close 
bunch, without the nerve to buck four aces right. I’ll 
wait for the Saint.” 

McLagan's quick eyes shot a sharp look into a grin¬ 
ning face. 

“She plays a great game,” he observed quietly. 

“Game? It’s a gift.” Jubilee chuckled. “If she'd 
take me as partner,” he went on with meaning, “we’d 
clean up half the world.” 

McLagan removed his cigar and dropped its ash into 
the fixed tray provided on the table on which Jubilee 
was sitting. 

“Have you put it to her?” he asked smilingly. 

The other shook his head. 

“Not on your life, Mac,” he said seriously. “I’m 
sure like every other guy around the way I feel but 
I’ve a sight too big a respect for a good woman to 
want to tie her up to the kind of life I live. Maybe 


101 


The Speedway 

sometime I’ll make the pile I mostly dream about, and 
I’ll be able to quit the game I’ve always run. Well, 
when that time comes, and I’ve learnt Sunday School 
ways, I’ll be feeling and acting pious. Maybe it ’ud be 
different then. Say, Doc’s doping off his feed.” 

‘‘You’re wrong, boy.” The Doctor bestirred him¬ 
self. “But likely enough I was dreaming. I thought 
I heard you talking of acting—pious. I--” 

He broke off. The curtains had been abruptly 
drawn aside from the great archway. Two of the 
waiters were holding them back. Suddenly there was 
a curious hissing sound somewhere up in the shadows 
about the domed ceiling. The next moment a fierce 
light flashed out, filling the archway with the white- 
circle of its beam. It was a “spot lime,” and it fell on 
the tall, slim figure of a beautifully gowned girl as 
she appeared from the landing beyond. It was Max’s 
greeting, on the night of celebration, to the beauti¬ 
ful Saint of his beloved Speedway. 

Just for an instant Claire Carver stood dazzled by 
the glare of the unexpected light. Every eye in the 
room was turned in her direction to discover the mean¬ 
ing of the terrific blaze. And in that moment Ivor 
McLagan feasted himself upon the vision he had been 
awaiting. 

The girl was clad in an expensive sort of semi¬ 
evening gown of soft, black material, aglitter with the 
shining surfaces of a myriad of black beads. At her 
waist was a large, sprawling artificial flower that 
matched the ruddy tone of her vivid hair. She was 
without gloves, and her rounded arms of alabaster 
whiteness were bare to the shoulder, and her gown 
below the knees revealed sheeny silk stockings which 
terminated in high-arched insteps and exquisite shoes. 



102 The Saint of the Speedway 

But her glory was the hat adorned with flowing Para¬ 
dise plumes, and the wealth of her hair framing a face 
whose beauty set the pulses of the gazing man ham¬ 
mering. 

Never in his life had McLagan seen Claire a creature 
so exquisite. And there flashed through his mind a 
memory of the girl of the headland, tortured by the 
threat of Bad Booker’s usurious terms. The change, 
the complete transformation, was amazing. There 
had been change before. He had seen it and delighted 
in it. But there had been nothing like this. This was 
the girl’s party gown. He understood that. She 
was- 

“God o’ my fathers!” 

Jubilee breathed his astonished admiration into Mc- 
Lagan’s ears, and was promptly silenced by a look. 

Somewhat embarrassed Claire came down the room 
with heightened colour, and eyes that smiled almost 
shyly. It was the same sweet face which McLagan 
had always known. Only it lacked something of that 
natural freshness which the wind and the sun of the 
coast had bestowed upon it in her days on Lively 
Creek. The downy bloom of those days had been re¬ 
placed by a suggestion of powder. Even her pretty 
lips seemed to have gained added ripeness from the 
careful touch of cosmetic. But the wide blue eyes, the 
even brows, and the rounded, perfectly moulded cheeks 
were the same, and, to the man’s thinking, even more 
beautiful. 

But some of the delight McLagan felt as the girl 
came quickly towards him passed at once as he beheld 
the figure of Max close behind her. Many a night he 
had looked on at the centre table where Claire always 
played, and had even found amusement in observing 



103 


The Speedway 

the crowd of men of all conditions who never failed 
to gather like moths about a candle flame. He had 
watched them in their frantic efforts to win her ready- 
smile, and it had filled him only with added pleasure 
in her beauty and simple charm. 

But the sight of Max at that moment, with his sleek, 
dark head, and his carefully cut close beard, his im¬ 
maculate clothes, and his good-looking foreign face, 
inspired a feeling he had never before experienced. 
He remembered the method of this girl’s entrance. 
The elaborate staginess of it. And he realised that 
Max had not designed an entrance for the most popular 
gambler in Beacon Glory. No. It was for the woman 
herself. And Max was rich and powerful, and without 
scruple. And, furthermore, with immense resources 
for achieving any purpose upon which he set his mind. 

Anger rose behind the man’s keen eyes, and their 
usual easy humour was changed to a glitter that had 
nothing mild or yielding in it. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The Man from the Lias River 
HE little burst of applause which greeted Claire’s 



A entrance had died out. Like the stage light that 
had descended upon her it had left her with a slight 
feeling of embarrassment. But she understood that 
the men, at least, if not the women, were in the mood 
to applaud anything and everything, for it was a night 
of festival. It was the first of its kind she had at¬ 
tended. She had known by tradition what was ex¬ 
pected, and had seen to it that she played her part. 
So her gown was the most expensive she could import 
from Seattle and the largish beaded handbag she was 
carrying was packed with a roll of money of unusually 
large proportions. 

In the brief eight months since Claire had plunged 
into the vortex of the Speedway’s gaming life she had 
become a victim of the fever of it all. Her original 
purpose had been the simple betterment of her fortunes 
and those of her mother. She had desired nothing 
more. For, in her heart, she had no sympathy with the 
reputation of the place. The whole idea had been cold 
business. But by degrees her viewpoint had changed, 
and the rich youth in her had gained ascendency. The 
place, the life, the game, swiftly took possession of 
her, and all of the dead father latent in her young soul 
had stirred to an irresistible passion. The lure of that 
centre table she had made hers, the rattle of the chips, 
the feel of the delicate pasteboards in her nimble fin- 


104 


The Man from the Lias River 105 


gers, were all things she had come to live for. She had 
learned to love it all with a real passion. 

In the process of time there had been scarcely a 
moment of disillusion. Her beauty had gained her a 
deep place in the hearts of the men. And the women, 
whatever their real feelings, bowed before a creature 
whom the other sex had set on so exalted a pedestal. 
Then her skill; her spirit. At the realisation of these 
things even the women stood by in frank admiration, 
while her amazing good fortune filled them with super¬ 
lative envy. 

Claire had been staunch and true to herself and her 
purpose. Never once had there fallen a lapse. She 
eschewed the vices she witnessed in others of her sex 
who haunted the place, while she gave full run to her 
capacity for sheer enjoyment. Never once in the 
thirsty, heated atmosphere of the place had she per¬ 
mitted any beverage more harmful than a mineral 
water to pass her pretty lips. She revelled in the scent 
of the tobacco with which men and women filled the 
atmosphere. But she had not the slightest inclination 
to essay the mildest of cigarettes herself. Then, too, 
she had swiftly discovered herself to be possessed of 
an unerring instinct in defence against the ardent and 
often crude advances she was constantly encountering 
amongst the wild youth with which she found herself 
surrounded. 

She had been dubbed “The Saint” from the earliest 
days of her career at the Speedway. And it was a 
natural enough appellation. Her given name had sug¬ 
gested, and her methods had inspired. It was the jeal¬ 
ous minds of her own sex which had coined the desig¬ 
nation. And the manhood of the city had taken it up 
in real affection. 


106 The Saint of the Speedway 

Before passing to her table Claire came over to the 
seat where McLagan’s great figure was lounging. And 
her greeting of him had in it no lessening of their old 
friendliness. 

“Why, Ivor,” she cried, “I didn't guess you’d be 
along in town. This is real fine on a party night. And 
—and”—her lighting eyes surveyed his evening suit— 
“say, don’t you look swell? You see, I always sort of 
expect you in your tough old pea-jacket.” 

The man’s plain face was alight with undisguised 
pleasure. He shook his head, and his small eyes twin¬ 
kled. 

“Don’t just say a thing, Claire,” he said quietly. 
“If you knew the way I feel I guess you’d hand me all 
the pity you know. I am hating myself under a boiled 
shirt, but I had to be around to-night anyway. And 
I’m glad. I’d have missed that dandy gown of yours 
else, and the picture you’re looking. You’ve got Bea¬ 
con plumb dazzled and me well-nigh blinded.” 

The girl flushed and laughed, but she left his com¬ 
pliment unanswered. 

“Are you going to sit in at my table?” she asked. 
Then with real sincerity, “I’d be glad.” 

But again McLagan shook his head. 

“No, Claire,” he said reflectively. “I got other no¬ 
tions being here to-night. Besides,” he added with a 
smile, “my bank roll isn’t equal to better than ‘table- 
stakes,’ and that’s no sort of use when you get busy. 
I’ll just sit around awhile. There’s Jubilee yearning 
to lighten your wad. He sat right in on the jump 
when you came along, and I don’t fancy he’ll squeal 
when you’re through with him. No, I’m waiting on 
Victor Burns, and one or two boys. I can do busi¬ 
ness here, and—I’ve pleased Max coming.” 


The Man from the Lias River 107 

Claire glanced round at her table and her eyes were 
no longer smiling. Her table had filled with the men 
with whom she was accustomed to play, and they were 
waiting on her pleasure. 

“Why must you please Max?” she asked a little 
sharply. “Why is it all of you men reckon to please 
Max?” Suddenly she lowered her voice and inclined 
towards him. “He’s gone off to the dance hall so I 
don’t mind. I’m getting to hate him like I used to hate 
Booker months back. That play of his just now with 
his light. It sickened me. It surely did, Ivor. And 
he’s getting like a tame cat. And I hate cats. Give 
me a dog all the time, and a good, rough, fighting trail 
husky at that.” 

McLagan nodded. His eyes were smiling inscrut¬ 
ably. 

“Don’t worry with him,” he said. “Don’t worry 
with any feller. Max has his uses, which don’t need 
to concern you. But your boys are looking gun-play 
my way.” 

Claire laughed. The man was dismissing her. This 
big, burly, plain creature who had persistently asked 
her to marry him. Just for a moment a sense of pique 
disturbed her, but it passed immediately, lost in her 
laugh. There was no other man in that room would 
have done the same. She nodded at him and took her 
dismissal. 

“Swell clothes hide up all sorts of things, I guess,” 
she cried, as she moved away, “but it’s queer how the 
rough in a man can leak through. I guess those boys 
at the table won’t be in such a hurry to lose me.” 

She was gone. And with her going a sense of loneli¬ 
ness at once stole in on McLagan. He desired her for 
himself. He desired Claire Carver above all things in 


108 The Saint of the Speedway 

the world. He could cheerfully have driven the crowd 
about her table headlong. But that was the feeling that 
was his at all times at the sight of the men who gath¬ 
ered about her. However, he had come there with a 
resolve from which he would not deviate, and, in ac¬ 
cordance with that which lay at the back of his mind, 
he had dismissed her to the game which he knew was 
her passionate delight. 

Victor Burns had just passed the curtained arch¬ 
way, and hard on his heels was a newcomer who at 
once claimed all McLagan’s interest. For a moment 
he observed the man while the banker strolled leisurely 
over towards him. He was a broad, powerful creature 
in dark clothes, with a pea-jacket tightly buttoned over 
his chest. His face was clean-shaven and dark, but 
his eyes were of the palest hue of blue, and as expres¬ 
sionless as those of a dead codfish. It was his eyes 
that interested McLagan most, and Burns came up 
almost before he was aware of it. 

Burns laughed. 

“Hello, Mac, where are the boys? Busy? You 
seem to be having all sorts of a time to yourself. I’ll 
hail a flunkey an’ collect a cocktail.” 

McLagan edged round towards the empty chair 
which the banker took possession of. 

“Nothing for me, Victor,” he said brusquely. “Jubi¬ 
lee’s in the game there, and the Doc’s oozed off to get 
a look at the dames in the dance room. Abe’s passed 
back to his own booth, and young Burt Riddell’s sitting 
in where his game can’t butt in on his partner’s.” He 
laughed. “We’re outside it all, eh?” 

“I surely am,” the banker admitted promptly as he 
surveyed the crowd. “You can’t run a bank and play 
big money at the Speedway. Say-” 



The Man from the Lias River 109 


He broke off as he caught sight of the man with the 
pale blue eyes thrusting his way unceremoniously 
through the crowd about Claire’s table. McLagan fol¬ 
lowed the direction of his gaze. 

“Who’s that tough-looking guy?” he asked quickly. 

“Cy Liskard,” the banker said. “He’s a client of 
mine. And he’s full to the back teeth with dollars and 
dust. And,” he added slowly, “looks like he is with 
liquor, too. Guess he’s out for a time. He’ll get it if 
he sits into the Saint’s game. She’ll skin him to 
death.” 

The stranger’s movements were rough and forceful. 
He made no pretence. The crowd where he joined it 
about Claire’s table was at least three deep. It was 
composed of men in every fashion of clothing, and 
women whose faces were sufficiently disguised under 
paint to hide up the worst traces of aging and dissipa¬ 
tion. He shouldered his way through and came to a 
halt immediately behind one of the players. McLagan 
wondered at the ease, the impunity, with which his pur¬ 
pose was accomplished. 

“He’s a roll of ten thousand in his hip pocket, and 
I can’t say how much more. I wonder the kind of game 
he’s got lying back of those dead eyes of his.” 

Burns spoke reflectively, but his companion made no 
answer. McLagan had bestirred himself out of his 
seat. He had perched himself up on its arm, the better 
to view the scene. His gaze was on the stranger and 
was swiftly reading the thing that must have been 
obvious to any onlooker sufficiently interested. The 
man was clearly under the influence of drink, but by 
no means drunk, and his “dead eyes,” as Burns had 
called them, were fixed in a devouring stare upon the 
girl at the far end of the table. It was not the game 


110 The Saint of the Speedway 

that claimed the man. No, it was the girl, who re¬ 
mained utterly unconscious of his regard, lost in the 
absorbing interest of the hand she was playing. 

“You know, Mac,” Burns went on, after a moment's 
contemplation of the man, “there's faces with features 
that mark a man down in a feller's reckoning, and 
leave him with an opinion that he's no right to on the 
face of things. But his feeling generally proves right 
in the end. That boy’s eyes leave me cold in the spine,” 
he laughed. “To me they're the eyes of a dead soul. 
To me, they're the eyes of a feller who’d better have 
been smothered at birth. I’d hate-” 

He broke off. Above the murmur of voices with 
which the room was filled the tones of a voice jarred 
harshly. It was Cy Liskard, and he was speaking to 
the man behind whose chair he was standing. 

“I want to cut in right away,” he was saying. 
“Ther’s fi’ hundred dollars for your chair, Mister. 
Does it go?” 

McLagan had straightened up from his lounging at¬ 
titude. Burns, too, was on his feet, and both had 
moved nearer to the table. Five hundred dollars of¬ 
fered for a “cut-in.” It was sufficiently extravagant. 
And every eye of those standing around was on the 
stranger who made the offer. 

A few moments passed. The hand came to an end, 
the pot passing to the man whom the stranger had 
sought to buy out. Then there came movement, and 
the player's voice made itself heard. 

<T Hand us the dough,” he said sharply. “You can 
cut right in. If you've the nerve to bid five hundred 
for a chair, I guess you're more entitled to it than 
me. 

He rose from his place and Cy Liskard dropped into 



The Man from the Lias River 111 


it. Then he made his way through the smiling crowd. 

“Fifteen hundred dollars for six hands leaves me at 
peace with the world,” he said, as he approached Mc- 
Lagan and the banker. “Ain’t that so, Mac?” he asked, 
with a wink. 

He stood for a moment looking back at the table, 
and his smile of self-satisfaction suddenly faded out 
of his eyes. 

“I’m kind of sorry I fell for it, though,” he said, 
lowering his voice. “That guy’s haf soused, and I’ve 
let him into her table.” 

“Maybe it’s just as well you did, Soo.” 

Soo Tybert stared at McLagan wonderingly. He 
was a burly youngster, partner in a dry goods store, 
and hailed from his father’s wholesale house in Seattle. 

“How so?” he asked. 

McLagan shrugged. 

“He meant cutting in, anyway.” 

Burns smiled. 

“I guess the Saint’s going to have a swell night,” he 
said. “Mister Cy’ll be along in the morning to replen¬ 
ish his dollar reserves. Can you beat these boys who 
come easy by the stuff lying around the creeks ? Haf 
a highball under their belts and the good air of the hills 
blown out of their vitals, and they’re as ready to pass 
on their stuff as an elderly, new-made widow-woman.” 

But McLagan and the dry goods boy were paying no 
heed to the banker’s reflections. They were talking 
earnestly in a low tone, and when they had finished, 
Soo made a somewhat hurried departure. 

“Where’s he gone?” asked Burns, when McLagan 
returned to his side. 

“To hunt up Max.” 

“Why?” The banker’s keen eyes had sobered, and 


112 The Saint of the Speedway 

a sharp look of doubt accompanied his interrogation. 

McLagan indicated the table at which Claire pre¬ 
sided. 

“What d’you know of Cy Liskard ?” he asked, curtly. 

“Not a thing. He’s a customer at the bank, that’s 
all. He’s on pay dirt and hit it good.” 

“Where?” 

“Don’t know.” 

Burns shrugged. But the look in his friend’s eyes 
interested him. 

“There’ll be trouble before the night’s out. I’m 
going to stop around.” 

McLagan’s words came sharply, but in a tone only 
meant for the banker’s ears. There was a curious hard 
set to his plain face, and his small eyes were coldly 
bright. Victor Burns held him in deep regard, and his 
understanding of him was the understanding of years 
of intimate association. He had long since probed 
McLagan’s interest in Claire Carver, and made his 
estimate of it. And now, as he observed the man’s 
hard-set look, he realised something of the depths to 
which he was stirred. 

“You don’t need to worry,” he said quietly. 
“There’s no man around here to-night crazy enough 
to play tough—not to-night.” 

McLagan’s reply came with cold conviction. 

“Ordinarily, I’d say you’re right, Victor. But ther’s 
mischief back of that feller’s eyes. He paid five hun¬ 
dred to cut in. Why? For a hand at poker? Not on 
your life. I’m going to get in and watch the game.” 

McLagan was far too familiar with the poker games 
played at the Speedway to concern himself with the 
bigness of the game he was looking on at. It mattered 


The Man from the Lias River 113 


little enough to him the relative value of the heavy 
red, white and blue chips. Their value might be 
twenty-five, fifty and one hundred calculated in cents 
or dollars. It made no impression whatsoever upon 
his imagination, but the skill of the players was a 
never-failing source of interest. The human psychol¬ 
ogy in the game was fascinating beyond words. 

To him the young girl, who seemed literally to have 
given up her life to the lure of the game, was the epit¬ 
ome of all that was demanded of human nature in 
the play. Her beautiful face smiled or remained seri¬ 
ous as mood inclined her. But no change in it was 
wrought or influenced by the progress of the game. 
Her mood seemed at all times buoyant, and her flashes 
of inspiration came and passed without a moment of 
apparent effort or hesitation. In three hands she had 
her opponent's measure with an instinct and observa¬ 
tion that were unerring, while she played her own hand 
with the baffling inconsequence which only a beautiful 
woman could achieve. The values of every hand, esti¬ 
mated through her understanding of her opponent's 
methods, were instinctive knowledge to her, and she 
played on the instant at all times, while her skill in the 
draw proclaimed her utter and complete mistress of 
the game. 

A hand had been dealt since Cy Liskard had sat in 
and the ante had remained unchallenged. Now a jack¬ 
pot was being dealt for. Claire’s smile was good to 
watch, and a light of deep absorption was shining be¬ 
hind her beautiful eyes. She dealt the hand, and sat 
waiting for the opening or passing of the jack-pot. 

Jubilee shook his head and closed his cards up. The 
next man refused. Cy Liskard picked up some chips 
and counted them. 


114 The Saint of the Speedway 

“I’m opening for ‘fifty/ ” he said, while his curious 
eyes levelled themselves at the dealer. “Guess that 
calls a hundred/’ 

The hush was profound. The onlookers foresaw a 
big gamble if all the table came in. Then again, it 
might be a crude bluff on the part of this man who 
was almost a stranger to them. 

McLagan was observing the man with almost cat¬ 
like watchfulness. Victor Burns was smiling inter¬ 
estedly, wondering the while how long his customer 
would last in the hands of these skilled and merciless 
gamblers. To him there was, there could be, no doubt 
as to the end. This man would stand no chance. He 
would stand no more chance than a lamb in the midst 
of a wolf pack. 

Of the six players at the table Jubilee alone refused 
to come in. He threw his cards in and sat back while 
Claire began to deal for the draw. The betting started 
at fifty dollars, and the spectators’ interest deepened, 
for, after the draw, all but Claire and the man who had 
opened the pot threw in their hands. 

Claire’s instant response to the stranger was a raise 
to five hundred dollars. 

It was the sort of thing expected of her, and interest 
deepened. Cy Liskard had drawn two cards, and the 
smiling dealer had matched his draw. There could be 
no indication as to what either of the players held 
beyond the fact that the man had opened the pot. 

Cy’s response was slower in coming. He glanced 
at his cards and closed them instantly. Then, in a mo¬ 
ment, he raised the girl’s bet by one hundred dollars. 

McLagan never for an instant withdrew his gaze 
from the man, for it was the man who interested him. 
It seemed to him the dead eyes had somehow come to 


The Man from the Lias River 115 


life under the purpose driving him, and he was en¬ 
deavouring to read and grasp that purpose. To Mc- 
Lagan it was a face masking completely every sign of 
emotion, but he felt that emotion was burning deeply 
behind the lustreless eyes, and somehow the conviction 
of lurking evil was irresistible. 

Victor Burns, like all the rest around the table, had 
eyes only for the beautiful woman, with her graceful 
figure a-shimmer with the twinkling beads of her 
gown, and with her wealth of vivid hair under her 
modish hat framing a face which he was never tired of 
gazing upon. 

Claire smiled her prompt reply, her lips parting and 
revealing a row of perfect teeth as she “saw” the bet 
and raised it another five hundred. The challenge was 
thrilling and on the instant every eye focussed on the 
man at the end of the table. 

He raised his strange eyes and gazed hardly into 
those of the girl, and as he passed his chips into the 
centre of the table, McLagan drew a deep breath. 

“Curse it, ther’s your fi’ hundred, an’ another on top 
of it. Will you see it?” 

“Surely. And raise it.” Claire’s retort came in 
tones of smiling, unruffled calm. “It’ll cost you a 
thousand more.” 

The man laughed. But the laugh was harsh and 
unconvincing in its lack of mirth. 

“I like it in thousands,” he cried, as the girl’s chips 
were slid into place to swell the pot. “There’s your 
thousand and another. Well?” 

There was a shuffling of feet amongst the spectators 
and several coughed. It was an expression of the 
wave of excitement surging. 

“Perfectly well.” 


116 The Saint of the Speedway 

The girl matched his bet and raised it another hun¬ 
dred. And the man laughed again with a further 
challenge. 

“It’ll cost you another thousand!” he cried? and his 
tone was exulting. 

Victor Burns found himself holding his breath while 
he waited for the girl’s move. Just for one instant her 
eyes flashed out of their usual calm. There was real 
excitement in them now. And he wondered if at last 
she had been caught out of her depth. 

“And more,” she said. And her voice was perfectly 
steady. “One thousand more.” 

Her chips had become exhausted and she thrust for¬ 
ward a roll of bills. Then she sat waiting for the man 
to come again. 

It was the supreme moment when the test of nerve 
was at its highest pitch. The onlookers understood. 
Big game as they were used to witnessing at this 
centre table, it was the first time they had looked on 
with stakes rising by a thousand dollars at a bet. The 
question in every mind was the same. The man was 
obviously a gold man with a pouch full of dust. What 
was its limit? How far would he go under the influ¬ 
ence of the surroundings and the liquor he had obvi¬ 
ously consumed? 

Cy Liskard clutched his cards and laughed harshly. 

“Come again,” he shouted. “There’s your thousand 
an’ another.” 

He literally flung the bills on the table, for he, too, 
had exhausted his chips. “Ther’s nigh fifteen thou¬ 
sand in the pot. Can you see it an’ raise it? Raise it 
—if you’ve the grit.” 

“Sure, I will,” Claire replied with just a suspicion 
of sharpness in her tone for all her smile. “Come 


The Man from the Lias River 117 


again, Mister man. Let’s see your colour. You 
haven’t the stuff in you to raise that. It’ll cost you 
fifteen hundred.” 

The girl’s breath came quickly for all her self-con¬ 
trol. There was challenge in her tone, a woman’s 
taunting. But to McLagan, who knew her every 
mood, there was more. In his mind he questioned her 
nerve if the man came back at her, and he edged his 
way nearer, and his instinct was to support and 
strengthen her in the weakness he fancied she was be¬ 
ginning to betray. 

He reached her side, and her opponent was forgotten. 
Just for one instant her pretty eyes flashed a smiling 
upward glance into his plain face, and a wave of re¬ 
lief surged through his anxious mind. Her eyes were 
full of the confident courage he had feared for. 

“It’s good enough!” 

Cy Liskard threw his cards on the table face down¬ 
ward. 

‘‘It’s yours, my lady. I’m done.” 

A gasp of astonishment came from the onlookers. 
The man’s defeat, his weakness, left them amazed. 
Then, as Claire reached out and collected the pool, 
short and sharp came Jubilee’s challenge. 

“Your ‘openers,’ Mister!” 

Cy Liskard turned his unsmiling eyes on the man. 
His gaze was cold for all the harshness of his response. 

“What the hell!” he cried. 

Then he reached towards his cards and sought to 
turn them. In doing so he displayed all five. Per¬ 
haps it was intentional—perhaps, in a fury of resent¬ 
ment at the challenge in his defeat, the thing was in¬ 
advertent. Whatever it was, the revelation was com¬ 
plete and a gasp of amazement greeted his action. 


118 The Saint of the Speedway 

He had thrown in four aces! 

A chorus of derision followed. There was laughter. 
There were epithets of undisguised contempt for the 
play that could yield four aces so tamely. Even 
Claire smiled her contempt at her late opponent while 
she thrust her own cards deeply into the remainder of 
the pack. There was only the straight flush to have 
beaten that hand, and the man had parted with some¬ 
thing like eight thousand dollars. 

The comments of the onlookers remained unheeded. 
The man’s dead eyes were on the woman opposite him. 
He seemed oblivious to all but the smiling contempt in 
her eyes. 

“Say, ain’t you satisfied?” he demanded, a curious 
note underlying the harshness of his tone. 

Claire laughed derisively. 

“Sure I am,” she cried. “I’m always satisfied with 
easy money. Guess I’m ready to take all that’s com¬ 
ing, even from a feller who’s fool enough to throw in 
four aces. The deal’s with you, Jubilee.” 

She turned to her grinning neighbour, who was shuf¬ 
fling the cards, but the man at the end of the table 
was not yet done with. 

“Say,” he cried again, and his tone matched the 
frigidity of his soulless eyes. “Ain’t ther’ no change 
cornin’ ? I handed you better than eight thousand dol¬ 
lars. Guess you didn’t win that pool. I passed it you. 
You didn’t bluff me a thing. Eight thousand couldn’t 
scare a feller with my wad. No, sir. You’re queen 
of this layout, and I don’t seem to yearn for any 
lesser dame. You got eight thousand a present. An’ 
ther’s fi’ thousand more fer a dance. Guess that’s 
what you’re here for, ain’t it? Here’s the stuff. I’m 
out to buy. It’s right up to you. Well?” 


The Man from the Lias River 119 


The coldness of it was icy. The brutal purpose 
consummate. The man was in liquor, but it was no 
drunken proposal. It was considered and confident. 

A hot flush swept over the girl’s beautiful cheeks. 
It dyed her fine brows right up to the roots of her no 
less vivid hair. Then she smiled, and her eyes glit¬ 
tered. She shook her head. 

“You’re drunk or crazy,” she said. “I don’t know 
where you come from. I don’t even know your name. 
But I guess you best get back to the dirt you scratch 
your gold out of. It’s the only place for men like 
you.” 

Claire spoke quietly, but there was that in her words 
and tone that was indescribable in its utter contempt. 
Cy Liskard withdrew the bunch of money he was 
grasping with a jerk. He stood up. And his cold 
gaze passed swiftly over the crowd of faces watching 
the scene. Then his eyes came to rest again on the 
beautiful creature he so obviously coveted, and dull 
fury looked out of them. 

“You b-!” 

But the filthy epithet was smothered. A man’s 
great fist crashed it back into the foul throat that had 
inspired it. Cy Liskard reeled. He fell backwards 
against the chair from which he had arisen. And 
when he recovered himself he was looking into the 
muzzle of a heavy automatic pistol with the fierce, 
narrow eyes of Ivor McLagan behind the weapon. 

“You swine! Beat it! Beat it right out of here 
or I’ll send you plumb to the hell you belong to! Push 
up your hands, dam you! Push ’em up, an’ beat it!” 

But the man made no attempt to obey. His pale 
eyes stared back into the fury burning in the engineer’s. 
His hands remained by his sides. 



120 The Saint of the Speedway 

Those looking on realised the thing abou^to happen. 
There was movement and scurrying as those in other 
parts of the room scrambled out of the line of fire. 
This stranger man was looking on death, calmly and 
without yielding. Another moment and-- 

But in that moment an amazing thing happened. It 
almost seemed as if by magic the room had become 
peopled by a small army of ghostly, white-robed figures. 
They came in a sort of wave through the curtained 
archway through which Claire, earlier in the evening, 
had made her triumphal entry. And they swept down 
upon the gold man from behind in the voiceless fash¬ 
ion of avenging spectres. 

It was all over in a moment. Cy Liskard was en¬ 
gulfed in the white wave that rushed upon him. There 
was a moment of confused, voiceless struggle. Then 
the white-hooded spectres had vanished as they had 
come and McLagan returned his heavy weapon to the 
hip-pocket of the evening clothes he so cordially de¬ 
tested. 

Cy Liskard had been spirited away by the white-clad 
Aurora men, and almost on the instant the momentarily 
interrupted game was resumed amidst a chorus of 
laughter and eager comment. Nothing would be al¬ 
lowed to interfere with the Speedway’s routine. Even 
matters of life and death were of no real concern com¬ 
parable with the success of Max’s annual festival. 



CHAPTER IX 


The Aurora Clan 

I T was brilliant moonlight. Millions of stars were 
shining on the velvet of the heavenly dome, but 
their sheen was dimmed against the vivid spread of 
moving colour that lit the northern horizon. In the 
cloudlessness of the night the mysterious blaze of the 
Aurora had transformed the hours of darkness. 

It was somewhere beyond the city limits where the 
plain rose gently towards the distant, surrounding 
hills, and the open gave place to wide bluffs of forest 
land. The scene was set in a spacious clearing, with 
a wealth of spruce and poplar and jack-pine rising out 
of the tangle of undergrowth encompassing it. And 
somewhere about its centre stood an aged Western 
cedar, which looked to belong to other latitudes, other 
climates. 

The cedar was a forest giant of immense proportions. 
It stood out in the splendid twilight black and over¬ 
whelming, for all its height was dwarfed by the lofty, 
tattered crowns of its aloofly respectful neighbours. 
It formed a wide canopy of shelter beneath its far- 
reaching boughs, matted with their manifold carpet 
of curious foliage. It was a shelter admirably suited 
to the ghostly scene being enacted beneath its shade. 

Twenty white-robed, white-hooded figures stood in 
an unbroken circle at a point where the wide-flung 
boughs were at their greatest spread. Right above 
them, almost exactly bisecting their circle, a monstrous 
121 


122 The Saint of the Speedway 

bough reached out supporting a dangling, rawhide rope 
which terminated in an ominous noose. Within a foot 
of this noose, gazing squarely at it, bound hand and 
foot, stood a white man prisoner. 

For the moment complete silence prevailed while 
Cy Liskard’s pale eyes surveyed the thing with which 
he was confronted. He was sober enough now, and 
there was no lack of understanding in him. He knew 
he was the victim of no play game. For. even he, com¬ 
parative stranger as he was to the life of Beacon Glory, 
had heard of the doings of the men of the Aurora 
Clan. 

He had offended. He realised that. He had of¬ 
fended these self-appointed custodians of the city’s 
morals, and he was searching acutely the doubtful 
chances confronting him. 

His cold eyes passed over each silent figure in its 
white cloth gown. He sought to penetrate the conical 
hoods which enveloped each head, masking it com¬ 
pletely and falling generously upon the shoulders. 
And all the time he was aware of the ugly thing which 
hung precisely at the level of his neck. 

The futility of his search quickly impressed itself 
upon him. Bound fast, he was completely helpless. 
These people had left him with sufficient freedom to 
stand erect, but that was all. At length the silence, his 
own impotence, and the hideous threat of the dangling 
rope got the better of his none too generous stock of 
self-restraint. He stirred, and sought to twist his 
powerful arms free under their painful bonds. Then 
of a sudden his voice rang out sharply, harshly, in a 
characteristic challenge. 

“Well ? What the hell—next ?” 

There was fury in his challenge. There was a 


The Aurora Clan 


123 


shadow of something else in its violence. And as the 
sound of it died away the silence of the night came 
back at him, filling him with a sense of his own utter 
helplessness. 

A few moments later one of the white figures stepped 
out of its place in the circle. It came forward and 
halted before the hanging rope. It raised its arms and 
took possession of the noose, and when the rope was 
finally released the captive realised that the noose had 
been considerably widened. 

Then the man stood a pace back and made a sign 
with outstretched hands. He beckoned in two direc¬ 
tions. And, in a moment, the captive was seized from 
behind and securely held by his bound arms. 

Putting forth a tremendous effort, Cy Liskard 
sought to free himself. It was quite hopeless; and the 
effort, as a result of his bonds, only cost him his bal¬ 
ance, and, but for the support of his captors he would 
have fallen to the ground. 

The prisoner was no longer under any illusion. The 
thing about to happen was obvious, and the silence of 
it all suddenly drove panic surging. The man in front 
of him had again possessed himself of the swinging 
noose. He approached slowly. Then, in a moment, 
the rope was placed over the prisoner’s head and 
rested loosely upon his shoulders. 

The figure withdrew at once to the tree-trunk. And 
a moment later the noose drew sharply tight about Cy 
Liskard’s bull-like neck. 

With the tightening of the noose the last vestige of 
the prisoner’s self-restraint vanished. He cried out, 
and his whole impulse was for blasphemy and vitupera¬ 
tion. 

“Name of God!” he cried violently. “Cut this adrift 


124 The Saint of the Speedway 

if you’re men and not swine. What have I done? 
What d’you want? Gold? If you’re ‘hold-ups’ I’m 
ready to pay. You’ve got me where you need me. 
Turn loose your lousy tongues. If you cut this gear 
adrift ther’ ain’t a man amongst you ’ud stand up to 
me two seconds.” 

A voice replied to him. It sounded muffled, and 
hollow, and far-off as it came from behind the mask of 
the man at the tree-trunk. But to the prisoner it came 
in welcome relief. For it was the first human voice 
he had heard since his capture. 

“We want nothing from you, Cy Liskard,” it said. 
“We aren’t out to rob dead men. You’re about to be 
dealt with according to the laws of the Aurora Clan.” 

The voice seemed to fade out rather than to cease 
speaking. Then the controlling figure at the tree-trunk 
gave a further sign. The two men standing ward of 
their prisoner withdrew on the instant, and with a 
jerk the rope tightened viciously about the prisoner’s 
neck. 

The man writhed under the sudden pressure. He 
struggled fiercely. But every effort he made only 
caused a further tightening of the rope. In panic and 
complete and sudden despair, he ceased his struggles. 
And on the instant the rope relaxed, and the muffled 
voice came again. 

“Your struggles are useless,” it said. “There’s no 
escape from the Aurora Clan. Our men are every¬ 
where in the city, the valley, the forest, the plain. If 
you broke from us now, you’d be recaptured within an 
hour. Our purpose to-night is simple. To-night you 
die—unless you swear never to return to Beacon Glory. 
If you swear that you’ll be freed at once, and your 
goods and ponies will be handed back to you here and 


The Aurora Clan 


125 


now. There’s no alternative. No woman in Beacon 
will ever be insulted by you again. We’ll see to that. 
Remember, if you ever return to Beacon your death 
will be instant. You can choose. You’ve two minutes 
in which to do so.” 

The ballroom was a blaze of light. The raised 
boxes about the walls were crowded with resting 
couples refreshing themselves at the expense of their 
host. The band, which was more brazen than seemed 
necessary, was blaring out a fox-trot with a haunting 
melody, which seemed to be the joy of the heart of 
the uniformed man behind the slide trombone. The 
softer strings were almost drowned under his super¬ 
human efforts, and even the notes of the cornet were 
hard put to it to obtain a hearing. 

The dancers were many and various in their meth¬ 
ods and appearance. There were dress suits in evi¬ 
dence among the men, and the women’s garments 
ranged from prodigal scantiness to redundancy. There 
were burly men and fat. There were lean creatures 
who looked to spend their days on short rations and 
hard work. While the women appeared, as they ever 
do to the casual onlooker, a rainbow spectacle of femi¬ 
ninity pleasing enough to the masculine eye careless of 
the details of their variegated costumes. 

Doc Finch was among the stouter dancers and 
his partner was only little less ample. They looked 
comfortably hot and in no danger of foot entangle¬ 
ment. Jubilee was striding vigorously with a good- 
looking woman whose beauty owed much to her gown 
and the careful application of facial make-up. Bad 
Booker was smiling over the shoulder of a young 
thing who was frankly absorbed in the joys of the 


126 The Saint of the Speedway 

dance without regard for the company she was keep¬ 
ing. While Jake Forner, his chief clerk, was strain¬ 
ing every nerve to keep pace with a woman whose 
efforts suggested gymnasium training rather than 
terpsichorean. He was perspiring freely, and a far- 
off look of troubled concentration gazed out of his 
student’s eyes, leaving it a matter for speculation as 
to when the breaking point would be reached. 

It was a scene of real and comparatively decent 
human revelry. Outwardly, at least, its decorum was 
complete. The night was still young enough for the 
human nature gathered there to retain possession 
of the cloak of seeming which the occasion imposed. 
It was a bal masque without its phantasy of cos¬ 
tume. 

Claire Carver and Ivor McLagan were in posses¬ 
sion of one of the boxes. The waiter had just de¬ 
posited a tray of refreshments on the table between 
them. True to her fixed rule the girl had ordered 
coffee and a savoury sandwich. But the oil man had 
no such scruples. His refreshment was a Rye high¬ 
ball. 

Claire had abandoned her game immediately after 
the discomfiture of the stranger gold man. The thing 
had startled her out of her usual equanimity. Trouble 
of one sort or another was by no means new to her. 
But in her eight months of the life of the Speed¬ 
way it had been the first time she, herself, had been 
subjected to downright insult. She had always un¬ 
derstood the risk she ran. Her mother and friends 
were always behind her ready to remind her if in 
her more generous moments of happy optimism she 
should chance to forget. But for all that the shock 
had been no less, and for once she had been glad 


The Aurora Clan 


127 


enough to accept the company of the man who had 
so promptly defended her, and turn her back on the 
shrine of the temple at which she worshipped. 

McLagan read through the mask of levity she was 
endeavouring to impose upon herself. Out of his love 
and great sympathy his pity had promptly leapt. It 
stirred him to her further aid. And so he had gladly 
availed himself of the mood that had made her laugh¬ 
ingly appeal to him for the dance she had refused to 
the man who had so grossly enriched her. 

They were talking now as they rested, watching the 
antics of the buoyant crowd moving rhythmically to 
the brazen efforts of the band. 

“You know, Ivor,” Claire said smiling but reflec¬ 
tively, “those white fixed folk get me scared to death. 
It’s the first time I’ve seen them close up. Once be¬ 
fore I saw them, or thought I did. I was out in the 
automobile, and I kind of thought I saw a bunch of 
them move off the trail ahead of me in the dusk and 
hide up in the bush. I wasn’t sure, but I was scared 
enough then. It’s queer. How—how did they know 
to-night? How did they come along right on time? 
Was it Max on the ’phone? I didn’t see Max around 
at all. Say, does he run them? Are they sort of his 
police ? They scare me. I was glad enough to see them 
get around. You see, that feller didn’t put his hands 
up to you when you had him covered. But I sort of 
feel we don’t just know where we are with such a 
gang operating.” 

The girl was gazing down on the moving crowd 
while she voiced her apprehensions, and the man was 
left free to feast his eyes on the picture she made in 
her beautiful gown and the hat that was so perfect 
a crown to the wealth of vivid hair beneath it. He 


128 The Saint of the Speedway 

was smiling happily in the reward her presence be¬ 
stowed upon him for his efforts in her defence. 

“It’s kind of queer, Claire,” he said, and there was 
that curious harshness of tone which he rarely seemed 
able to avoid. “But some way I don’t feel it’s for 
you to be scared a thing. If this gang is what it’s 
reputed I’d say it’s only the folks with unclean minds 
and ways that need to be scared. But there certainly 
are things calculated to set folks worrying the way 
the Clan learns and acts when things are wrong. I 
don’t reckon Max has a thing to do with ’em. Though 
you never can tell. I was talking to Max when we 
came down. I allow he’s quite an actor. But—well, 
if he was acting it was mighty clever. He was rais¬ 
ing hell to learn how those folks got in on his pre¬ 
cious Speedway.” 

The girl turned from the scene that so entertained 
her. 

“Was he ?” She shook her head. “He’s got a head 
as long as—as the body of that girl dancing with 
Burt down there,” she said with a laugh. “He’s not 
going to give himself away. I’d say he’s a great bluff 
when he feels like it. You know I’ll have to quit the 
Speedway or-” 

“Or what?” 

McLagan’s eyes were no longer smiling. 

“Or marry him.” 

The girl’s smile had passed. Her eyes were no less 
serious than his. 

“You mean that?” 

McLagan was leaning across the table with his 
hands supporting his plain face. He waited while 
Claire sipped her coffee and nodded over her cup. 
Then he went on deliberately and almost harshly. 



The Aurora Clan 


129 


“You can’t! You mustn’t! You shan’t!” 

He was stirred out of his usual calm. And Claire’s 
gaze lowered before the hot fire she beheld leap into 
his eyes. 

“He’s wealthy,” she said slily. 

“And he’s like a tame cat. The creature you hate.” 

Claire set her cup down and laughed happily. 

“That’s no argument,” she cried. 

“Argument?” McLagan shook his head. Then he 
added significantly: “If you want argument I can give 
it you.” 

“Not that sort,” Claire warned him sharply. “I 
have your promise. But I’d like to hear any other— 
from you.” 

The man sat up. He leant back in his chair and 
gulped down half his highball. His moment of un¬ 
restraint had passed. He was smiling again, but a 
feeling something approaching bitterness laid hold of 
him that Claire would tolerate only his friendliness. 
He gazed into her face and smiled. But he was 
yearning with a passion that well nigh devastated his 
sternly controlled composure. He shook his head. 

“No, Claire. You mustn’t marry Max,” he said. 
“You know him as the actor he is. I know him as 
he really is.” He leant over the table again. “Say, 
I wouldn’t marry a she-wolf to Max.” 

“Why?” 

McLagan. shrugged. 

“Leave it at that,” he said brusquely. “Here, kid,” 
he went on quickly. “You’re right. You must quit 
the Speedway. Quit it all. It’s not for you. Don’t 
you see? Oh, yes! I know. The folks are good to 
you. Sure they are. They’re mostly men, and you’re 
a swell girl that sets them crazy to be good to you. 


130 The Saint of the Speedway 

But it’s all on the top. There isn’t a thing under¬ 
neath but the ordinary muck of human nature. 
You’re going to get it sometime when I’m not around, 
if you keep on. And there’s sure no need for you 
to keep on. I-” 

“But there is.” Claire’s interruption came sharply, 
and she held up a warning finger at the threat of 
storm she again read in the man’s hot eyes. “Here, 
Ivor. I said plain argument. Listen. I’m making 
money in bunches. Big bunches. I need the money. 
And I love the game. But some day I’ll need to quit. 
I know that. But it won’t be till my luck breaks, or 
—Max turns. If Max turns first I’ll need to get out 
quick. No! I’ll never marry Max! I’d sooner 
marry—Satan. Oh, yes! When that happens I’ll get 
out quick. I know. I’m wise. You don’t need to 

be scared for me. But meanwhile I go right on- 

Hello! Say—look!” 

The girl was pointing down the ballroom. Her 
eyes had widened. They were sparkling with a queer 
light. 

McLagan was leaning forward. He was following 
the direction of the pointing finger, peering out half 
hidden behind the curtain hangings. And as he gazed 
upon the queer scene that had startled his companion 
the braying of the band crashed awkwardly into com¬ 
plete silence, and the dancing floor was cleared as if 
by magic. 

Three white-robed figures were making their way 
in silent procession down the length of the room. 
They moved slowly, and with monkish dignity, their 
high-pointed mask hoods, with their goggling eyeholes, 
creating an atmosphere that hushed the onlookers to 




The Aurora Clan 


131 


dead silence. Behind them the arched entrance was 
crowded with similar ghostly figures. But the illusion 
in this direction was largely counteracted by the array 
of heavy guns held ready for prompt action by hands 
all sufficiently human. 

It was a tense moment. The silence was deathly. 
Only the sound of the footsteps of the moving figures 
broke it. The whole company was shocked to im¬ 
potence. And the eyes of all were preoccupied be¬ 
tween the array of arms in the far archway and the 
progress of the moving trio. The “hold-up” was com¬ 
plete. 

The three figures halted before the buttress pillar 
which centred one of the walls, and on which was 
fixed the notice-board whereon was pinned the dance 
programme for the night. They gathered about it, 
and for some moments their movements clearly told 
of their purpose. Then they moved away, returning 
as they had come, without haste and without a word. 
Again they passed over the polished floor. They 
reached the archway and their supporters. They 
passed through the closed ranks. Then, in a moment, 
the whole of the silent white army had withdrawn 
as abruptly as it had appeared. 

A rush, a scramble followed. Men and women, 
even the orchestra men, hurried over to the notice- 
board. The dance programme was lying on the floor 
below it and its place had been usurped by a large 
sheet of paper covering the whole extent of the board. 

McLagan and Claire had abandoned their box and 
joined the curious crowd. They were standing on the 
fringe of it, gazing at the white sheet of paper bear¬ 
ing its written notice in crude, hand-printed lettering. 


132 The Saint of the Speedway 

There was no need to get nearer. The text was plain 
enough and large enough to be read from across the 
room. 

TAKE NOTICE 


The people of Beacon Glory are warned that the presence 
of one, Cy Liskard, on the premises of the Speedway will 
be the signal for its complete destruction by fire. 

Sgd. Chief Light of the Aurora. 

Claire turned to the man at her side. 

“Max isn’t around,” she said significantly. 

McLagan shook his head. 

“He’ll be along,” he said, and glanced expectantly 
in the direction of the arched doorway. 

The crowd was recovering itself. It was moving 
away, and comment and laughter made themselves 
heard in every direction. The bandsmen were hurrying 
back to their dais where the conductor was summon¬ 
ing them with sharp taps of his baton on his music 
stand. The boxes, too, were rapidly refilling. Doc¬ 
tor Finch approached McLagan and Claire. He 
laughed with a little uncertainty. 

“Things are kind of busy,” he said. “Max’ll need 
to have a sharp eye. These boys don’t bluff any.” 

McLagan shook his head. 

“No,” he admitted seriously. “They don’t bluff. 
If that boy shows up inside the Speedway I wouldn’t 
give five cents for Max’s fire policy.” 

Claire looked round quickly. The band had just 
started a One-step. She had been interestedly watch¬ 
ing the entrance. 

“Let’s dance, Ivor,” she said quietly. “Max has 
just come in.” 



The Aurora Clan 


133 


McLagan glanced round quickly. Max, dark, sleek, 
picturesque, was coming towards them hurrying down 
the room. His face was unsmiling, and to those who 
knew him the signs were sufficiently ominous. 

McLagan quickly took possession of the girl and 
drew her away from the region of the notice-board 
and Max, and as the latter came up and stood him¬ 
self before the insolent threat it contained, he found 
himself alone with such emotions as the message in¬ 
spired. Claire and McLagan, like the rest of the 
dancers, were observing him half-amusedly, half¬ 
doubt fully as they glided about over the polished floor 
which was so much his pride. They knew that his 
wealth and power as the reigning monarch of his 
beloved Speedway had been challenged, and they won¬ 
dered as to its possible effect upon a man of his tem¬ 
perament. 


CHAPTER X 


The Haunt of the Clansmen 

F OR all the glory of the night "had waned, lost in 
the deeper shadows of the hour before dawn, the 
house stood out stark and decaying on the low fore¬ 
shore of the lake. Once upon a time the place had 
represented luxury. It had possessed an enclosure 
where its owner had sought to cultivate a flower gar¬ 
den about it. There had also been a pile-built landing 
at the water’s edge, and a stout boat house. There 
had even been a roadway approach from the city 
which was more than a mile distant. Rut, like the 
house itself, these things had long since yielded to 
the fierce battle of the elements. A few up-standing 
timber-baulks reared their rotting heads above the 
water. The original fencing of the enclosure lay rot¬ 
ting on the ground, and the roadway to the city was 
almost completely submerged by the encroaching 
waters. For the most part the house was well-nigh 
roofless. The shingles had been torn from their 
places, and the underlying joists stood out bare to 
the storms which swept the plain in the howling win¬ 
ter season. 

It was a relic of the vaunting days of the boom 
of Beacon Glory when easy money so often robbed 
even the astuter souls of that longer vision of which 
they stood in so much need. It had doubtless been 
the pride of some more than usually fortunate crea- 
134 


The Haunt of the Clansmen 135 


ture’s heart, who yearned to possess a lake-side sum¬ 
mer residence. There were many signs about it to 
give such an impression. There were the remains of 
the deep-roofed stoop for lounging in the sweltering 
heat of summer. There were the French casement 
window frames overlooking the lake. Then the wood¬ 
work and the joinery were of the finest quality, while 
the whole planning suggested a type so beloved of 
the heart of New England. 

But now, with the waters of the lake lapping about 
the foundations of the verandah, with the garden and 
the roadway approach a partly submerged wilderness, 
in the chill windlessness of the last of the night, the 
place only added to the general impression of distance 
and darkness and utter desolation. 

The moon had lost its cold brilliance. It lay fallen 
from its high estate in the dome of the heavens, lolling 
wearily, a dull yellow disc just above the horizon. The 
stars, too, had yielded their twinkling brightness, while 
the cold fires of the Aurora were burning low, and 
their ceaseless movement suggested a hasty, disorderly 
retreat to the mysterious fastnesses of the northern 
world which had given them birth. 

Yet life was stirring, and it centred about this dere¬ 
lict habitation. 

Two men had passed the rotting fencing and made 
their way through the tangle of growth to the back 
entrance, which clearly opened into the kitchen prem¬ 
ises. They paused before the closed door and re¬ 
mained talking in low tones for some moments, then 
one of them, a man of big physique, raised a clenched 
hand and his knuckles rapped sharply and peculiarly 
on the resounding woodwork. There was a further 
moment of delay, then the door swung open inwards, 


136 The Saint of the Speedway 

and the darkness beyond swallowed up the newly 
arrived visitors. 

After awhile there came a further arrival. He was 
a stoutish creature who gazed searchingly about him 
in the darkness before passing on beyond the line of 
the containing fence. But finally he, too, passed from 
view as had the earlier comers, and the engulfing soli¬ 
tude in which the derelict habitation was wrapped re¬ 
turned to its unbroken sway. 

After that, in quick succession, there were two fur¬ 
ther arrivals. They came, both of them, from the 
direction of the sleeping city. They came singly, and 
in each case their approach was in similar method to 
those who came before. It was as if rule governed 
them, they approached cautiously, peering and listen¬ 
ing in the dim twilight of the night. Then came the 
signal knock upon the door, and after that the gaping 
darkness of the interior swallowed them up in the 
voiceless mechanical fashion which suggested a con¬ 
trivance controlled from somewhere in the far interior 
of the deserted habitation. 

As the last of the five visitors passed into the house 
there came the sound of the bolting and barring of 
the entrance door, and the final operation was com¬ 
pleted just as the first streak of dawn transformed the 
eastern horizon, and brought forth the waking chorus 
of the wild fowl upon the lake. 

The room was bare of all ordinary furnishings. 
The brick walls were cracked and decayed and dis¬ 
coloured with damp patches. It was a windowless 
apartment containing the rusted boiler and gear of a 
steam-heat furnace. In one corner lay a small quan- 


The Haunt of the Clansmen 137 


tity of anthracite coal and a rusted shovel, and the 
concrete floor of the place was a-litter with rubbish 
and damp patches, and odds and ends of old packing- 
cases clearly left there for the original purpose of 
kindling. 

The place was lit by an oil lamp suspended on a 
hook in one of the timber joists supporting the floor 
of the house above, and by its dim, yellow light four 
white-robed figures, with their sugar-loaf hoods, 
pierced with eye-holes, were revealed lounging on 
such of the upturned packing-cases as afforded rea¬ 
sonable security. A fifth was standing, leaning in his 
immaculate garment against the rusted side of the 
derelict furnace. 

It was a spectacle for humour to witness these 
queer, ghostly figures in their secret haunt, holding 
solemn conclave in a cellar which in ordinary life 
probably nothing on earth would have induced any of 
them to enter. But their purpose was utterly and 
completely serious. They formed the Supreme Execu¬ 
tive of the “Council of the Northern Lights,” which 
was the whole control of the great body of the men 
of the Aurora Clan. 

The big man at the furnace was clearly the leader 
and prime moving spirit of the organisation, and he 
was talking in the cold, hard fashion which so much 
suggested his position. His whole manner was that 
of keen command, but for all the coldness of his tone 
there was neither roughness of language nor the least 
vaunting display of authority. 

“We needed this council right away,” he said. “We 
need to take a clear decision before the sun gets up. 
That's why I sent you boys word when maybe you 


138 The Saint of the Speedway 

were yearning to make good the sleep you're needing. 
We've had a busy night. And I reckon, as a result 
of it, we've a busy time in the future." 

He paused. His hooded head was raised so that 
its eye-holes were directed at the lantern above him, 
which had begun to splutter. As the flame settled 
again to its business he went on: 

“Our job is primarily to clean up some of the muck 
lying about our city. I know that. But I never had 
any doubts, from the moment of our foundation, that 
an endeavour like ours might easily lead us into other 
work—other responsibilities. The logic of the whole 
position is simple. If we reckon to clean up the muck 
of the city, we also need to set its furniture into de¬ 
cent order. It’s no use setting hogs to live in a 
palace. If we're cleaning up morals, let's look to 
folks' rights." 

He paused again. This time he was listening 
acutely. There was a sound drifting somewhere out 
over the bosom of the lake. It was the rising of the 
wind as the sun approached the horizon. 

“Now, boys," he went on, speaking more hastily, 
“I don't want to keep you from the sleep you're all 
needing, but this is the proposition as a result of this 
night's work. Beacon stands right at the crossways 
to-day. Maybe soon there’ll be a flood of oil come 
to its rescue through those folks on the Alsek River. 
That, I guess, is in the lap of the gods and the feller 
running it. Then there’s the other thing—gold. It 
was gold that raised this city. Well, Beacon can go 
up, or further down, as a result of those two things. 
A big gold strike or a big oil strike, can send her 
sky high. That's all right. But it seems to me our 


The Haunt of the Clansmen 139 


work demands that whether it’s the feller, McLagan, 
with his oil, or any other boy with gold, we need to 
see that Beacon gets its due success as a result of any 
strike in its neighbourhood. I guess McLagan’ll play 
white. If he don’t the remedy is with our Clan. But 
the gold boys are more difficult.” 

He stood up from the rusty stove, and his white 
robe was sadly besmirched, but he gave no heed and 
went on sharply and with obvious feeling. 

“It’s that feller, Cy Liskard, we’ve been dealing 
with to-night. I believe he’s made a strike that looks 
like transforming Beacon from a derelict city to a 
hive of prosperity.” 

There was a movement amongst his audience which 
clearly displayed the impression, the effect of the 
magic of gold upon these men of the gold city. A 
voice came back at him out of one of the hoods. 

“He comes from the Lias River.” 

“I’ve heard that, too.” 

“An’ the Lias River runs right back into the moun¬ 
tains, hundreds of miles,” said the same voice. 

“Sure.” The man at the stove nodded his cowled 
head. “That’s so. It runs right back into Canadian 
territory. If that feller has made a big strike, and 
I know he has, Beacon should know it. No feller’s 
entitled to more than his claim. Beacon should know 
the place. Beacon should have a right to jump in, 
too. There’s decent men and women with as much 
right as Cy Liskard, and maybe more, to handle the 
wealth of this territory, and it’s up to us to hand them 
the chance. We ask ’em to live clean and wholesome. 
Well, we’ve the right to show ’em how, and help ’em. 
We must send a bunch to the Lias River and locate 


140 The Saint of the Speedway 

this strike. We must respect Liskard’s claim, whether 
it's in Alaskan or Canadian Territory, but we want its 
secret for the folks of Beacon. Well?” 

Discussion followed promptly. It came in the 
quick, hot fashion of men whose main outlook on 
life is bounded by the precious metal that first brought 
their city into being. And the discussion tended to 
complete agreement with the man whose guidance they 
had accepted. 

The leader listened closely to every argument his 
council put forth. He agreed to, or negatived, each 
argument with calm impartiality, and when, at last, 
nothing further was forthcoming from his Counsellors, 
he leant again against his supporting stove, and raised 
up one warning hand in sign that the debate was 
finished. 

“I put the proposition,” he said formally, “we ap¬ 
point a bunch of the boys to investigate on the lines 
we’ve laid down. There must be no other action 
taken. The man must be shadowed to his destina¬ 
tion. His movements must be watched, and when the 
discovery is complete, or sufficient has been ascertained 
of the whereabouts of his strike, full report must be 
made to this council. Then we will decide on proce¬ 
dure. There are gold men amongst us, but our oath 
must prevail. The result of this investigation is for 
the community of Beacon Glory, regardless of all in¬ 
dividual personal interests. Is it agreed?” 

The prompt show of hands was unanimous. Finally 
the “Chief Light of the Aurora” himself raised his 
right hand. 

One by one the hands were lowered and the leader 
spoke again: 

“It’s sufficient. The investigators will set out 


The Haunt of the Clansmen 141 


forthwith. We shall need a competent leader for the 
work. Therefore, I call on you, Number Three,” he 
said, pointing at the stoutish figure sitting third 
amongst his audience. “You are best qualified in every 
way. You have years of the gold trail behind you, 
and you will know how best to deal with any opposi¬ 
tion you may encounter from this man. The meeting 
is closed.” 

He reached up and unhooked the lantern in the 
roof. The next moment the cellar was in complete 
darkness. 


CHAPTER XI 


The Wreck at the River Mouth 

S ASA MANNIK was down at the seashore. He 
was labouring over his fishing tackle, which was 
only little less primitive than that of his Eskimo fore¬ 
bears. His sturdy bluff-nosed, sea-going boat was 
lying nearby on the shelving beach, awaiting the mo¬ 
ment when she would be run down into the racing 
waters waiting to receive it. The man was a half- 
breed Eskimo, in whom White and Indian ran a neck- 
and-neck race with the original stock from which he 
sprang. 

Sasa was a characteristic creature. In build he was 
squat, and of enormous physical strength. He had 
a beardless face that might have belonged to almost 
any native race. His eyes were mere deeply set slits; 
his mouth was large and loose; his nose was as flat 
and broad as his cheekbones were high and promi¬ 
nent; while his lank black hair suggested nothing so 
much as a horse's mane. He was certainly unprepos¬ 
sessing and even crafty to look at, but he was by no 
means without many redeeming qualities. He was a 
fisherman first and before everything, but he was a 
reasonably faithful servant, too His greatest weak¬ 
ness, however, was an addiction to a picturesque and 
superstitious lying which Ivor McLagan, who em¬ 
ployed him, chose to condone for the sake of his 
otherwise useful service. The engineer liked the man. 
Sasa made a curious appeal to him. And so he paid 
142 


The Wreck at the River Mouth 143 


him ten dollars a month, and permitted him to cook, 
and wash, and look after the log shanty, which, like 
an eyrie, he had set up on the high cliffs overlooking 
the mouth of the Alsek River. 

It was a no less bleak and desolate inlet than a 
hundred others which serrated the southern coast line 
of Alaska. Attacked from sea and land, a way had 
been driven through the granite cliffs so that river 
and sea merged in an iron-bound bay, sea-bird haunted 
and without a vestige of softening from its barren 
austerity. Its waters were set with numberless up¬ 
standing granite fangs, and the swirl of its turbulent 
tide revealed submerged traps in almost any direction. 
The bay possessed two definite, comparatively free 
and wide channels. One travelled southwards while 
the other hugged tightly to the northern shore. But 
even in these the racing tide looked ready to crash 
the adventurous navigator upon unguessed disasters. 

Sasa Mannik stood up from his labours and his 
narrowed eyes gazed contemplatively out over the rac¬ 
ing waters. He, like his employer, saw none of the 
natural terrors with which their high-perched home 
was surrounded. Ivor McLagan had no business with 
the hauntings and dread which Nature strives to in¬ 
spire in her harsher moments. His was the hard, 
practical, hungry mind of one of the earth’s seekers. 
His only care was for the lure of the business which 
was his. His home had been pitched in the heart of 
this natural wilderness, that, in his brief moments of 
rest from the labours of his enterprise farther up the 
river, he might look out on the wide-open sea. What¬ 
ever the storms that howled about his staunch home¬ 
stead there were always hope, and health, and sunlight 
in the breath of the restless ocean. 


144 The Saint of the Speedway 

Sasa was quite without any concern in the matter 
of where his existence was set, provided the sea was 
within his reach. If his boss chose to live like some 
foolish sea-fowl, perched on the summit of barren 
cliffs, that was his affair. For himself he would un¬ 
doubtedly have chosen some sheltered bluff on the 
river where the worst storm would be powerless to fan 
the flame of his camp-fire. But then he was not a 
white man and foolish. So he contented himself with 
things as they were, and fished, and traded his catch 
at his leisure, and carefully pouched the money he so 
earned. And meanwhile he ate and drank well at his 
boss’s expense, and fulfilled as much of his side of 
the contract between them as suited him. 

The man’s eyes looked to be almost tight shut as 
he searched the swirl of waters sweeping by, and the 
cloud-flecked sky above them. All his experience was 
in full play at the back of his mind. It was a fresh 
spring day, and the waters were smiling as much as 
they ever permitted themselves to smile, and the rest¬ 
less gulls were winging in every direction accompany¬ 
ing their efforts with mournful cries of joy. A light 
breeze was coming out of the northwest. 

In Sasa’s mind the indications were not all that he 
might have desired. The northwest wind was always 
something that could leap suddenly into a howling 
gale. But then, on the other hand, it was good for 
the salmon shoals, which at no time of the year he 
had any scruple about attacking. Yes. On the whole 
the day was too good to miss. Besides, the risk of 
a sudden gale added spice to his labours. His boat 
was stout. It was ready. So was his gear. Then, 
too, there were many shelters on that broken coast 
he knew of in case of need. 


The Wreck at the River Mouth 145 


He turned his dark face to windwards, where a 
sharp and lofty headland shut out something of his 
view. His movement possessed no real inspiration. 
It was the mechanical result of his thought. This 
way lay the northern channel which surged round the 
rugged beach at the foot of the headland. He had 
no thought of passing out that way. It would be 
simple madness to make the attempt. Besides, it 
would be impossible. No boat could face the torren¬ 
tial rush of the current in that direction. He knew 
it as the “Channel of Death.” 

Not even a crazy white man with his boat of iron 
and smoke could face that channel and hope to reach 
the sea. But the current had its uses for a real sail- 
orman like himself. Oh, yes. A hundred times he 
had sailed home to this beach upon it. And even to 
do that was an adventure that stirred his native vanity 
and yielded him vaunting satisfaction in his own skill. 
No. He would run down on the southern channel. 
He would fish with the ebb till it was nearing flat 
water, then he would beat up northward and sail home 
down the northerly raceway with a free wind. That 
is, if no gale arose to- 

His train of thought suddenly broke off short. 
Something had caught and held his whole attention 
out there somewhere beyond the sharp-cut headland. 
And as he gazed, his eyes screwed up in the brilliant 
sunshine, he drew a sharp breath which was his only 
expression of astonished incredulity. Just for one 
brief moment he stood thus. Then he suddenly set 
off at a run, making all speed for the fierce beach 
where the ocean rollers roared impotently at the foot 
of the headland. 



146 The Saint of the Speedway 

More than a month had passed since the night of 
the Speedway’s festival. It had been a time of in¬ 
tensive work for the head of the Mountain Oil Cor¬ 
poration. The summer was short, all too short, for 
the work he was engaged upon, and of necessity he 
was forced to drive hard while the season permitted. 
Now he was at home drafting an earlier survey of a 
territory which looked like revolutionizing the work 
of his company. 

In the midst of his labours he looked up as the 
door of his log shanty was unceremoniously thrust 
open. 

The table before which he was seated was a rough 
enough piece of furniture, as were most of the fitments 
of this shelter he had set up on the wind-swept cliffs. 
It was littered with the mechanical drawings, and 
charts, and maps he was at work upon. There was a 
queer assemblage, too, of the instruments of his pro¬ 
fession lying scattered over the completely untidy 
apartment. 

Peter Loby stood regarding him with a smiling look 
of relief. 

“I’m glad I took the chance, boss,” he said, with a 
laugh of content. “Guess I was two minds about it. 
You see, I came down the river because I wanted to 
save you the trip up—an’ to gain time.” 

“Why? What’s doing, Peter?” 

McLagan spoke quietly, but his eyes were sharply 
questioning. 

Peter was a tall, lean creature whose whole horizon 
was bounded by oil and the business of extracting it 
from the bosom of mother earth. He was a practical 
expert to his finger tips. But he possessed no knowl¬ 
edge beyond its sheerly technical side. He was glad 


The Wreck at the River Mouth 147 


enough to serve under McLagan. He knew his chief’s 
worth as a dogged, fighting, companionable creature 
who held his place as the principal representative of 
the world’s greatest oil concern by sheer ability. And 
he knew his own expertness would have full play 
under McLagan’s control, and such reward on results 
would come his way as rarely enough fall to the man 
in his position. Furthermore, he liked the man, and 
desired nothing better than to serve as his foreman 
of works. 

“Why, I spent three weeks on that coal belt you 
located last fall. An’ I’ve made a further rough map 
of the thing you guessed about it but didn’t figger to 
chase up at the time. Here’s the map. Maybe you 
best read it. I’ll talk after/’ 

He passed a large linen tracing across to the man 
behind the table, and drew out a plug of chewing 
tobacco from the hip pocket of his moleskin trousers. 
Then he propped himself against the doorcasing and 
gazed out seaward, while his lean jaws masticated the 
chew he had bitten off. 

After awhile McLagan looked up from the care¬ 
fully drawn chart. 

“That belt passes right back into Canadian terri¬ 
tory,” he said. 

Peter turned. 

“Sure, boss,” he replied, with a light of triumph in 
his keen eyes. “But there’s more than that to it. A 
heap more. That’s why I got around on the dead 
jump.” 

He stood up from his leaning attitude and his hands 
were spread out in an expressive gesture. The man 
was simply bursting with his news. 

“It looks to me we’re in the heart of the world’s 


148 The Saint of the Speedway 

biggest coal beds, an’ the signs are we’re surely right 
on the fringe of the oil field that’s mixed up with it,” 
he went on. He came over and rested his hands on 
the table, leaning forward the more surely to impress 
the man behind it. “I tell you, boss, right here we’ve 
hit the biggest cinch since the world began. We’re 
on oil now, and drilling through hard black lime. 
That’s all right. But further back is where the real 
stuff lies, an’ it’s right in the heart of such a coal 
belt as I’ve only dreamed about. It’s a range of coal 
mountains. It’s nothing less. And the valleys are 
the natural drainways for the thick juicy oil we’re 
yearning to tap. It’s that brought me along. I want 
to take you right up there to see the thing it is. But 
I’m crazy for you to wire this report I’ve got here, 
from Beacon to our folks down home. Here it is, 
boss,” he went on urgently, as he drew a folded sheet 
from an inside pocket. “I wanted you to get that, 
an’ send it from Beacon first, an’ then come right 
along up where I can show you oil lying around where 
ther’ ought to be only creeks of mountain water.” 

The man was wellnigh beside himself with excite¬ 
ment. Oil was his job. Oil was his whole life. And 
out of his experience and keen practical knowledge, he 
knew he had jumped into the heart of such an El 
Dorado as he had only found hitherto in his dreams. 

But McLagan refused to be caught up by the infec¬ 
tion of the man’s excitement. It was not that he 
doubted. He never doubted when Peter Loby gave 
his considered opinion on such a subject. But he knew 
the amazing nature of the man’s assertion, and he knew 
that never before had he experienced a moment when 
calm judgment was more surely needed. 

He read the written report. Then he looked up at 


The Wreck at the River Mouth 149 


the man who still stood leaning over the table await¬ 
ing his decision. He nodded. 

“If this is right, Peter, it’s—the biggest thing in the 
world,” he said. 

His eyes were shining. 

“It’s right, boss. You’ll pass that on?” 

McLagan shook his head. 

“It’s too—big—as it is,” he said. “Too sweeping. 
I’ll rewrite it, and let you see what I’ll send. I just 
daren’t send it all till we’ve tried it out. I’m glad you 
came along down, Peter.” 

He held out a hand and the oil man gripped it. 

“Act the way you think, boss,” the man said, but 
with a shadow of disappointment. “You know best. 
Say—it’s great.” 

“It surely is. After this I guess you’ll be able to 
quit the game and sit back—Hello!” 

Sasa Mannik’s stocky body was filling up the open 
doorway. He stood there breathlessly gesticulating. 

“Boss! Boss! You come quick!” he cried. “It 
dam’ fool white man with big ship, plenty much sail. 
Him come along by raceway tide. Him break all up 
sure. All no good break up. You come quick. Crazy 
white man. All dam’ fool. No good.” 

The three men were standing outside the hut perched 
so perilously near to the sharp-cut edge of the sheer 
cliff. They were standing at an altitude of something 
over four hundred feet, gazing over the wild scene of 
the bay. It was the highest point immediately over¬ 
looking the mouth of the Alsek River. 

Behind them, to the north and to the south, rose the 
great hills which had remained snow-clad throughout 
the ages. But there the iron cliffs of the coast line 


150 The Saint of the Speedway 

stretched out at something like a uniform level. Far 
as the eye could see the smiling ocean lay spread out, 
glittering under the keen spring sunshine, while below 
them, marked clearly, sharply, lay the ugly ruins of 
torn rock which the storms of centuries had hewn from 
the parent cliffs. 

It was a scene these men knew by heart. All three 
were gazing out seawards. Their eyes were fixed 
upon a vessel that looked to be driving head on, under 
full sail, for the merciless rocks guarding the entrance 
to the river mouth. 

It was a sight that stirred the white men deeply. It 
was a sight that filled them with a strangely oppressive 
feeling of complete helplessness, and left them no 
longer concerned with those things which a moment 
before had completely preoccupied them. Here, on a 
calm Spring day, with a seemingly flat sea, a white 
man’s vessel under full sail—no wreck, no derelict with 
broken masts and spars, and with perhaps the steering- 
gear carried away—was heading calmly, almost it 
seemed, happily, to become a total wreck on perhaps 
the cruellest coast in the world. It was amazing! It 
was staggering! The awesomeness of the spectacle 
left them without a word. 

Not so, however, the half-breed who had brought 
the news. Perhaps he was less stirred by such a vision 
of coming disaster. Perhaps, in his curious, savage 
mind, the life or death of a few crazy white-folk was 
of no serious account. At any rate, he was under no 
spell of silent awe. 

“It all same lak I see this white man do all time,” he 
commented for his companions’ benefit. “What you 
mak? I tell you this. White man sailor see big bay. 
He see it all through much long glass. He say, ‘Yes, 


The Wreck at the River Mouth 151 


it good. We mak him land.’ He not think nothing. 
He not think ever. He white man. He do as he 
please. Yes. It same all time. White man boss look 
for oil. He say, ‘We find him.’ So he look where 
only hill, an’ forest, an’ river. He look for oil. Psha! 
I see white man down the coast same lak this, too. 
He come down in big canoe. He look, look all time 
for some thing. I not know. He search much. He 
climb rock. He peek in cave. All time he look where 
nothing is. That white man, sure. All time look 
where nothing is. I know. This man sailor. He 
mak break up all bimeby. He look for some thing. So 
he come. He sure find something bimeby. Plenty 
rock. Plenty all break up. Plenty all go dead.” 

“Oh, beat it!” 

It was Peter who flung his impatience at the half- 
breed. His chatter at such a moment was insufferable. 
Out there far beyond the headland the vessel was 
steadily heading on its course. It was racing down 
out of the northwest straight, almost as an arrow’s 
flight, for the desperate entrance to the bay. 

McLagan remained silent. He seemed oblivious to 
everything but the amazing vision of the doomed ship. 
His narrowed eyes searched her closely. She was 
smallish, as sea-going vessels went. He gathered from 
her sails and masts she was some sort of full-rigged 
ship, perhaps a coaster. Her sails were full in the fair 
wind. She was yawing slightly, but not sufficiently 
to set her aback. But it was sufficient to suggest some 
lack of control. Suddenly an inspiration took hold of 
him. He turned to the now silent half-breed. 

“You, Sasa,” he said sharply. “Tt was blowing yes¬ 
terday an’ you didn’t go out poaching the salmon. 
That poor devil of a ship’s caught in your death cur- 


152 The Saint of the Speedway 

rent. She’s made a lee shore and got caught in the 
current. She’ll pull up right on the beach of our 
river, do you understand? He’s no fool skipper look¬ 
ing to make a landing. He can’t darn well help him¬ 
self. Don’t you see? Here, Peter.” He turned to 
the oil man on the other side of him and his tone was 
urgent and thrilling with the horror of the thing he 
realised was about to happen. “You don’t know this 
coast like we do. There’s a maelstrom current out 
there. The only crazy man in the world who’d go 
near it is this feller, Sasa. Ther’ isn’t a steamer in the 
world could beat its way out of it if it once got caught 
up in it. As for a windjammer like that—psha!” he 
threw up his hands expressively. “That’s it. He’s 
made a lee shore in the gale. And now—God help 
him.” 

He turned again to Sasa. 

“Where’ll he beach ?” he asked sharply. 

The half-breed pointed down at the wide foreshore 
on the south side of the river mouth. 

“He mak that beach,” the man replied promptly. 
Then he pointed down at the northern beach where his 
own boat was still lying. “I mak him dis way. But 
I know. I sail him all time by the headland. So I 
slip him current, an’ mak quick shelter by the head¬ 
land. Big ship not slip him current. Oh, no, he mak 
so.” He swung an outstretched arm from right to 
left, indicating a great sweep across the bay. “He 
full current. An’-” 

“Sasa.” 

“Yep, boss.” 

“Can we signal from that headland ?” 

The half-breed’s eyes widened. 

“Wo’ for we signal. It no good sure. Him crazy 



The Wreck at the River Mouth 153 


white man not understand nothing. Him ship in the 
Death Current. He go on. Oh, yes. Crazy white 
man break all up bimeby.” He shrugged. “It all same 
all time. Same lak that other who look into caves an’ 
climb rocks. I see him one time mak right out to sea 
in canoe only built for river. Him current tak him. 
I get him with my boat. I tak him back. He not say 
nothing but curse me for a black son-of-a-bitch. Sure 
he all break up bimeby. ,, 

The doomed vessel was crashing on at terrific speed. 
Already it was looming large as it approached the 
headland. And now, as it drew nearer, its yawing 
became more and more pronounced. For some mo¬ 
ments no one spoke while they contemplated the 
wretched vessel’s impending fate. Then, as her high 
bows disappeared behind the upstanding belt of the 
headland, McLagan turned on his contemptuous 
servant. 

“Who’s the feller you’re talking about? The feller 
who looks into caves and climbs rocks?” he asked 
sharply. 

The half-breed shrugged without withdrawing his 
gaze from where the vessel was disappearing behind 
the headland. 

“How, I say? I not know. He come down the 
river out of the hills. What you call him? All white 
mans say him Li-as, yes? Indian man say him Devil 
River. Oh, yes, he come this way. I see him one, two, 
three time this man while I fish. He not see me, only 
one time. Maybe he fish. I not know. Plenty fish 
by Devil River. Oh, yes. Say, look, him come as I 
say. See ? The Death Current take him. So. See ?” 

He pointed. His narrow eyes were alight with 
something almost like joy as the bows of the vessel 


154 The Saint of the Speedway 

cleared the headland and the doomed ship raced on for 
the far beach. 

“It much big tide. Oh, yes. He go right up to the 
big rocks. Bimeby the tide fall. Then us go find 
plenty thing. Food, clothes, blanket. All thing dead 
white man not need more. So. I-” 

“Quit it, you darn thief!” McLagan’s eyes were 
furious as he turned on his ghoulish henchman. “And 
you’ll stay right here and not move a step till Mr. Loby 
and I get back. You’re nothing but a dirty scum of 
a half-breed. And if I get you near that wreck with¬ 
out my permission I’ll take you right in to Beacon and 
get you hanged.” 

He turned to Peter. 

“It’s no good, boy. I can’t stand it. We’ve got to 
do something. Poor devils, they’re surely doomed! 
Come on. Maybe we can help some. We’ll go right 
on down. We’ll get Sasa’s boat and ferry across to 
where she’ll hit that beach. I-” 

“I go too, boss.” 

Sasa was no longer contemplating the wreck he had 
hoped to enjoy. His attitude had suddenly become 
one of pleading. 

“You not mak that crossing without me,” he urged. 
“I know. Him my boat, an’ I sail him good plenty. 
You my good boss. You drown sure you sail him, 
my boat. I come. Yes? I not tak white man’s blan¬ 
kets. His food. His-” 

McLagan raised a threatening hand. 

“For God’s sake, shut up and come on!” he cried 
impatiently. “Come on, Peter. Maybe ther’s women 
down there. We’ll do what we can.” 

The engineer waited for no reply. The vessel was 
looming largely half-way across the bay. Now, as she 




The Wreck at the River Mouth 155 


passed into the shelter of the towering cliffs, her sails 
were flapping and booming in the breeze. But she 
was racing on to her destruction on the tremendous 
current, helpless yet almost magnificent in her white 
suiting over her black hull. It seemed incredible that 
nothing could be done to save her. A fresh, calm 
Spring day with a flat sea. And yet there was no help 
for her. 

Not a sound came up from her decks but the crash¬ 
ing of her great sails. There was not a single human 
voice crying out its agony of despair. Only there 
came the mournful shrieks of the circling sea-fowl as 
the men raced down the rocky pathway to the beach 
below. 


CHAPTER XII 


The Limpet of Boston 

HE outlook of the day had materially changed 



1 with the tide. The wind had increased mightily, 
and the fine, fresh, early summer sky had changed to 
one of banking storm-clouds which drove down out of 
the northwest. It was a prospect of rough weather, 
for all there were still moments when the sun broke 
through the grey, and strove nobly to lighten the de¬ 
pressing outlook. 

McLagan and his companions were standing on the 
slippery, weed-grown rocks. They were gazing specu¬ 
latively up at the high sides of the wrecked vessel as 
she lay cradled upon the jagged belt of rocks which the 
ebb of the tide had laid bare. She was lifted high out 
of the water, for the flood tide had long since aban¬ 
doned her. It had done the work it had striven to 
accomplish. It had flung its victim crashing upon the 
trap concealed within its merciless bosom. And now, 
in turn, satisfied, perhaps satiated, it had itself yielded 
to the greater forces of Nature. As the waters receded 
the vessel was left with her high, bluff nose stubbed 
deeply into the sharply shelving beach, which alone 
had saved her from complete destruction upon the 
granite walls of the cliffs beyond. 

It was a sight for real pity. Even to the unskilled 
minds of these landsmen she was a fine, sturdy craft 
that deserved better of the elements. There she lay, 
slightly a-list, wounded and sorely stricken. Her fore- 


156 


157 


The Limpet of Boston 

peak was literally disembowelled and they could only 
guess at the damage the rest of her bottom had suf¬ 
fered. Her yards were groaning under a hectoring 
wind, and her torn sails were slashing and whipping 
viciously in response to its onslaught. Her plates 
seemed to be sprung in every direction, and she lay 
there utterly helpless, awaiting the inevitable and com¬ 
plete destruction that was yet to come. 

McLagan had first approached the wreck on the 
height of the tide. His purpose had been the simple 
succour of those poor souls he had expected to find 
on board. The adventure had been full of risk, even 
under the consummate skill of the half-breed, who had 
done his best. But the terrible tide, and the increasing 
wind had defeated them, and, reluctantly enough, they 
had been driven to a perilous stand-off while they hailed 
the doomed vessel. 

They had shouted. They shouted again and again, 
seeking to make their voices heard above the roar of 
the ocean rollers driving down upon the vessel’s side. 
But the effort had been unavailing. There was not a 
sign or sound of life about her, and their only response 
was the roar of the sea and the mocking cries of the 
sea-fowl whirling about her protesting rigging. 

So in the end, they had been forced to yield. There 
was no alternative. They dared not approach nearer. 
Under the prevailing conditions their only hope of ap¬ 
proaching the wreck was to await the fall of the tide 
and make the shore upon which it was piled. 

But even so, their attempt had not been wholly fruit¬ 
less. They had discovered many things of deep inter¬ 
est. They had discovered the vessel’s name, which was 
set out plainly on her bluff stern. She was the Lim¬ 
pet, and her port of registration was the city of 


158 The Saint of the Speedway 

Boston. Furthermore, they realised that though her 
rudder post remained in place the rudder itself was 
gone. Then they understood that she had the shape 
and qualities of a coasting vessel of more than usual 
deep-seagoing type. She was built for heavy weather 
as well as the lighter work of her coasting trade, and 
they beheld, too, a wireless aerial was still in its place 
between her main and mizzen masts. 

But in McLagan’s mind the greatest significance lay 
in the fact that she was still laden with a deck cargo 
of lumber, and all her top gear was intact, and all her 
sails were set, and the only signs of her distress were 
the inroads which the wind had made upon her canvas 
suiting. From the distance, when she had first been 
discovered, she had looked to be riding proudly, gal¬ 
lantly to her death under full sail. But at close quar¬ 
ters it was clearly evident that this had been something 
of an illusion. Her sails were full set, it was true, but 
there were many sad rents that were widening every 
moment, and, in many places, their clews were strain¬ 
ing upon a last desperate hold. 

Now, with the tide at its lowest ebb, standing beside 
her on the rocks these men were less concerned for 
her superstructure than for the evidence the rocks had 
imposed upon her. Peter Loby was staring in simple 
wonder at the yawning gash torn out of her bows. 
Sasa Mannik, in true “wrecker” fashion, was contem¬ 
plating her from the point of view of his own advan¬ 
tage. He was a sailorman, and here were gear, ropes 
and canvas and possibly all the needs of his heart, for 
the simple process of collecting them. He had no con¬ 
cern for anything else. But Ivor McLagan gazed 
upon her wrecked bows while his mind was preoccupied 


The Limpet of Boston 159 

by the mystery of her presence in the remote inlet 
where he had set up his home. 

He was convinced now that she was without life 
on board, but the condition of her fully set sails also 
convinced him that her abandonment had taken place 
in fair weather, perhaps, even, in a dead calm. He was 
left quite unimpressed by her rudderless condition. 
He argued that this disaster must have occurred after 
her abandonment. For even to him it seemed impossi¬ 
ble that any responsible shipmaster could have set full 
sail on a vessel without steering gear. Then, except 
for the almost paintless condition of her rusted hull, 
there was no other sign of distress about her. Her 
deck cargo was aboard, and her boats, as far as he had 
been able to judge, were snugged as though there had 
never been a thought of the necessity for launching 
them. 

No, it was a curious, even mysterious visitation. 
He understood, he had often enough heard of a lee- 
shore and its dangers to a sailing vessel. Clearly 
something of the sort must have happened. But not 
in association with this vessel’s abandonment. 

He turned abruptly to his subordinate and pointed 
at the mass of rusted cable strewn about the rocks 
fallen through the rent in the vessel’s side like the litter 
of some wounded monster’s bowels. 

“That looks to me the easy way aboard,” he said 
sharply. “I don’t figger to know a deal when it comes 
to sea-craft. But it likely seems the hole that belched 
up that junk ought to be a way up to her decks.” 

Peter nodded. He glanced up over the sprung plates 
of her sides. 

“It surely looks that way,” he agreed. “Maybe— 


160 The Saint of the Speedway 

Holy gee! Here! Get a look up there 1 Look at 'em!” 
he cried excitedly, pointing up at the vessel's rail. 
“Ther’s scores! Ther’s regiments of ’em! Get a look 
at those darn rats!” 

All three men were staring up at a sight rarely 
enough to be seen. Peter’s excited estimate was by 
no means exaggerated. Just above the vessel’s rail 
was an upstanding pile of lumber, and it was literally 
swarming with rats of all sizes, from the full-grown, 
long-whiskered, grey patriarchs down to the extreme 
youth of the colony. They were running hither and 
thither without apparent aim or object till it seemed 
they must be participating in some sort of curious 
rodent gambol or driven by senseless panic. 

It was sufficiently repulsive to gaze upon. There 
was something utterly repellent in it. For some reason 
it is against human nature to view these pests without 
deeply stirred feelings. And for all the hardiness of 
these men the effect upon them now was wholly one 
of loathing. 

The scene only occupied a minute or so. Then, of 
a sudden, one rat, bigger, it seemed, than all the rest, 
suddenly made its appearance. He came to the rail of 
the vessel. He seemed to be contemplating it closely, 
or perhaps he was contemplating the men standing be^ 
low him on the rocks. Then, at last, apparently satis¬ 
fied with his survey, he set off along the rail on the 
run. In a moment the rest were following behind. 
They ran close together in single file, head to tail, till 
they looked like a long, thick, moving, grey rope. At 
a given point, the leader turned off back on to the deck, 
and the swarming creatures pursued him. 

With the passing from view of the hindmost, Mc- 
Lagan spat and shrugged his shoulders. 


161 


The Limpet of Boston 

“Quitting,” he said. Then he laughed. “It’s the 
way of things. She’s doomed. So—the rats are quit¬ 
ting. Guess it makes me sick in the stomach. I’ll hail 
you boys if I get through this way.” 

He moved over to the great hole in the vessel’s side 
and, stooping, peered within the dark cavity. He stood 
there for a moment. Then Peter saw him move for¬ 
ward and the hole swallowed him up. 

For all the extent of the rent in the vessel’s side the 
forepeak was dark and low and dank with the stench 
of bilge and rust. McLagan was forced to move cau¬ 
tiously over the piles of rusted cable, for he was utterly 
unfamiliar with his surroundings. But soon his keen 
eyes grew accustomed to the twilight and he was able 
to measure with some accuracy the place in which he 
found himself. A steel bulkhead shut him off from 
the rest of the vessel’s hold, and the walls of the place 
sloped inwards till their point of meeting was lost be¬ 
neath the tangle of chains at his feet. Right in the 
centre he discovered a fixed iron companion ladder 
standing sheerly erect. And examination showed him 
that it mounted up through manholes to the top deck, 
where a small, gaping hatchway revealed full day¬ 
light. 

In a moment he was swarming towards the light 
above. 

The three men were standing in the narrow limits of 
the ship’s cabin. It was small and unpretentious 
enough, but not without some refinement of decoration. 
The deck of the ship’s poop roofed the room, and, as 
is usual in such cases, the ceiling it made to the cabin 
was picked out in panels which were outlined in some¬ 
what striking but sufficiently harmonious colours. It 


162 The Saint of the Speedway 

was the same with the walls, and the doors which 
opened out of the apartment. The fixed chairs against 
the centre table were of the usual ship’s mahogany, 
and the upholstery was well-worn leather. There was 
no other furnishing to the place except strips of some¬ 
what decayed carpeting pinned securely to the deck. 

But there was that set out on the table which held 
both the white men deeply preoccupied with its sig¬ 
nificance. It was a meal obviously arranged for only 
one man. And it was only half consumed. There was 
no confusion, no litter, no sign of hasty abandonment, 
except that the meal appeared to have been broken off 
in the middle of it. 

The table was partly covered with a white cloth that 
had seen better and cleaner days. There was a dish 
containing some sort of hash that had become dried 
up. In front of what was obviously the captain’s seat 
at the head of the table, and which faced the alley- 
way entrance to the apartment, was a plate containing 
the remains of a portion of the hash. This, too, was 
dried up and shrivelled, and beside it lay a knife and 
fork which were both smeared as with use in consum¬ 
ing the food. Besides these, again, were the gnawed 
remains of some broken bread, and a drink that was 
clearly whisky and water. 

Further along the table stood a dingy cruet. And 
beyond this again was an uncut fruit pie. The crust 
of this was almost gone, and that which remained was 
sour-looking and mildewed. This, too, had been obvi¬ 
ously consumed by rats. And it was the same with 
the contents of a bread basket which stood beside it. 
Even the table-cloth itself had failed to escape the 
insatiable depredations of the rodents. But the signs 
were unmistakable. The meal had been interrupted. 


163 


The Limpet of Boston 

The man who had been devouring it had clearly been 
suddenly inspired to abandon it, and for some un¬ 
guessed reason he had clearly failed to return. 

McLagan raised a hand and pushed his cap back 
from his forehead. It was a gesture of perplexity. 

“It looks tough,” he said slowly. “It looks like that 
feller didn’t take time to eat right for the darn hurry 
he was in. He was a plain liver, too, I’d say. But he 
surely was in an almighty hurry.” 

Peter Loby nodded. Imagination in him was work¬ 
ing hard, but the result was negative. He glanced up 
from the table and his eyes surveyed the walls with the 
doors which opened out into what were clearly the of¬ 
ficer’s sleeping quarters. There were only three doors 
besides the entrance from the alleyway. 

“It’s the kind of thing to leave you guessing,” he 
admitted. “We’ve looked right into it all from the 
fo’castle head to this cabin. But ther’s still those state¬ 
rooms yet. Maybe one of ’em’ll hand us the ship’s 
papers and the log. That ought to tell us the story of 
it. It’s most certainly queer.” 

“Queer?” McLagan laughed shortly. He shook his 
head. “That don’t say a thing. Think back, man. 
What have we found so far? From the carpenter’s 
shop under the fo’castle head to the men’s quarters 
and the galley, and this, we’ve found just the thing 
you’d expect to find in a full-crewed, well-found ship— 
except the ship’s company itself.” He shrugged. 
“There were chips and wood lying around in the tool 
shop—and tools—just as if the boy who worked there 
had only just quit his job. The men’s quarters in the 
fo’castle looked to be in the sort of order you’d find 
in a ship about to set out for sea, an’ before she’s taken 
on her crew. As for the galley, you could start right 


164 The Saint of the Speedway 

in to fix food there now and not be worried a thing, 
except for being short on pots an’ things. Look at the 
lumber stacked on the deck. It’s there ready for a sea- 
trip without a stick or lashing out of place, and I’d say 
the hold cargo’s likely the same. And as for the 

boats-” He paused and gazed thoughtfully about 

him, and his eyes came to rest again on the rat-gnawed 
food on the table, which held him fascinated. 
“That’s the queerest thing of it all. This craft 
was built with four boats and they’re all in place 
snugged down, and I’d say they’ve never been un¬ 
shipped except for a coat of paint. Here’s a darn craft 
been sailing loose for maybe weeks or months without 
a soul on board we can locate, not even with the rats 
belonging her—now. And there’s not a sign of how 
or why the folks belonging her quit.” 

He turned and flung himself into the chair that had 
obviously been that usually occupied by the captain of 
the vessel. He seemed to be completely at a loss. Peter 
moved over to one of the doors, and peered into the 
apartment beyond. Sasa displayed no curiosity. His 
dark eyes were unusually wide, and a curious brooding 
light left them almost expressionless. He stood staring 
down at the littered table, and after a few prolonged 
moments of silence, McLagan stirred irritably in his 
chair. 

“Get around in those three state-rooms, or whatever 
they are, Peter, an’ take the darn breed with you,” he 
cried. “Poke around and smell out. Sasa’ll be more 
use that way than gawking like some darn mutt around 
here. If you find a thing, shout me. I’m stopping 
around to worry this thing out right here.” 

McLagan was rarely enough given to irritation. But 
oppressive irritation was driving him now. He re- 



165 


The Limpet of Boston 

mained where he was until his lieutenant and the half- 
breed had passed into the first of the three compart¬ 
ments. Then, as the door swung to behind them, he 
started up and passed swiftly from the room. Moving 
down the alleyway, beyond the steward’s pantry, he 
came to the break of the poop and out into the day¬ 
light. 

Here he paused. It was good to be out in the air 
again, and a sense of relief came to him as he surveyed 
the scene. The main deck here was clear of cargo. It 
was clean, almost as clean as if it had only just endured 
the attentions of the sand and canvas so beloved of the 
seaman. Rope-ends, that should have been neatly 
cleated, or coiled away, were littered where the weather 
had flung them, but it was the only sign of any con¬ 
fusion. 

He breathed his relief as he leant against the door¬ 
way and surveyed it all with contemplative eyes. The 
wind was screaming through the rigging and the torn 
sails were booming out their protests. The sky was 
darkening with a real threat of storm, and beyond the 
high prow of the wreck the grey walls of the bay rose 
up gaunt and forbidding. 

The whole thing had gotten hold of McLagan in a 
curiously depressing fashion. He felt that somehow 
there was an unusual story lying behind the circum¬ 
stances of this fair-weather wreck. And his practical 
mind was searching every avenue that opened up to its 
vision. 

Mutiny? His mind naturally turned to mutiny, but 
he dismissed the thought immediately. There was not 
a sign of mutiny from the ship’s bows to her stern- 
post. There was not a sign of force or struggle, and 
her boats were in place. Storm ? He shook his head. 


166 The Saint of the Speedway 

No storm had broken the heart of her crew. What else 
was there to cause her abandonment? Nothing. No. 
Look which way he would, there was no reasonable so¬ 
lution in the vessel’s condition. There had been a 
purely voluntary exodus, orderly, quiet, even if hasty. 
Of that he was convinced. There was no other con¬ 
clusion to come to. No. Whatever there still remained 
to be discovered in her holds, and in those cabins be¬ 
hind him, there was nothing much else for him to do 
but to drive into Beacon on the work he had in hand, 
and carry in with him the report of this wreck to Alan 
Goodchurch, who represented the United States Gov¬ 
ernment for the district. That would have to be done. 
But meanwhile- 

A curious look crept suddenly into his narrow eyes. 
He was looking out straight before him down the 
deck. Immediately in his focus were the securely bat¬ 
tened main hatch and the galley and the fo’castle. 
There were the iron-shod steps of the companion-ladder 
up to the roof of these, and, to the right of that stood 
a tarpaulin-covered winch, with behind it the donkey- 
engine room. His gaze was riveted on the deck way 
that passed beyond this and which was stacked high 
with great baulks of lumber. 

But it was not these things which had inspired the 
curious, questioning, incredulous look with which he 
gazed upon them. It was something else. Something 
which startled him, and made him turn quickly to the 
stormy sky, which, at that moment, had broken to 
permit a pallid beam of sunshine to make its way 
through. It was only for a moment he looked up, how¬ 
ever. Then again he became absorbed in the deck 
ahead of him. 

Suddenly he stood erect. He had abandoned his 



167 


The Limpet of Boston 

lounging. The doubt in his eyes had given place to 
something else which baffled description. He drew a 
deep breath, while a chilly sensation passed through 
his great body and left him with a feeling of curious 
helplessness. 

He remained unmoving. His fascinated gaze was 
still held. Not for a moment did it shift. It almost 
seemed as if it were impossible for him to look away. 
Then the grey of the storm-clouds closed up again and 
the sunbeam faded out. And as it did so he raised a 
hand slowly, almost involuntarily, and passed it hesi¬ 
tatingly across his forehead. 

With that movement mobility returned to him. He 
turned and glanced back into the alleyway. The next 
moment the sharp tones of his voice rang out. 

“Anything doing, boy?” he called, harshly. And he 
followed up his question by hastily passing back into 
the cabin. 

The search was over. McLagan and Peter Loby 
were standing at the break of the poop-deck. Sasa 
Mannik had separated from the others and was squat¬ 
ting hunched upon the main hatch. He was watching 
the white men, contemplating them with narrowed eyes 
while his shrewd native mind was following a train of 
thought which deeply preoccupied him. 

“I’m not a thing wiser,” Peter said in reply to a 
question. “There wasn’t a scrap of paper, or a bunch 
of human clothes. But I wouldn’t rely on that too 
much. You see, I hurried, an’ when you’re looking 
that way you’re liable to miss things. Ther’s one of 
those rooms for wireless. The other two were bunks. 
One with one bunk and the other with two. Both had 
bed fixings and they looked so they hadn’t been slept 


168 The Saint of the Speedway 

in. It gets me beat. The lockers were plumb empty, 
just as though they’d been cleared out to leave no trace. 
It’s the queerest-” 

He broke off. Sasa’s harsh voice had broken in on 
him. He had risen from his place on the hatch, and 
his eyes had widened out of their usual narrowing. 

“I go,” he said, sharply. “This bad ship—no good. 
Bimeby I not come back ever.” 

He turned and glanced almost fearfully about him. 

“Why, Sasa? You don’t like it? Why?” 

McLagan’s questions came sharply and on the in¬ 
stant. There was a half smile in his eyes. But there 
was nothing smiling behind them. 

Sasa spat viciously on the deck. 

“Bad spirit plenty,” he said with native panic in his 
widened eyes. “I go.” 

And without waiting for reply, or, perhaps, because 
he feared lest he should be detained, he passed quickly 
across to the vessel’s rail where a heavy downhaul was 
sprawled on the deck. He flung it over the side. And 
in a moment he had followed it, and was swarming 
down to the rocks below. 

“This thing’s got on his nerves,” Peter laughed. 

McLagan nodded. But there was no responsive 
laughter. 

“And I don’t somehow wonder,” he said. Then he 
shrugged. “I guess we can’t do any good here now. 
I’ll get along back, and pass right on into Beacon. I’ll 
need to make a report to Goodchurch on this. I surely 
will.” 



CHAPTER XIII 


The “Come-back” 

A RADIANT sky was smiling down upon the 
forest-clad hills. Somewhere away to the West 
the sun was lolling just above the horizon. For the 
moment its glory was lost behind the ranging hills with 
their garments of every shade of green. There was 
no cloud to be seen anywhere from the purpling dis¬ 
tance of the snow-capped mountains in the East, to the 
western splendour of the summer sunset. 

Cy Liskard was squatting over a camp fire that was 
built just outside his log home on the hillside. Nearby 
his dogs were pursuing some evening pastime that ap¬ 
pealed to their savage natures. Maybe it was play, 
but the snarls that were so frequently accompanied by 
the fierce snapping of ivory-shod jaws suggested the 
narrow line dividing it from canine warfare. 

His ponies were beyond the fence of a small, roughly 
constructed corral, and they stood close up to it at a 
point most nearly approaching the home of the man 
it was their life's burden to serve. Their shaggy heads, 
still rough with the remains of a winter coat, which 
neglect had left clinging to them, were thrust over the 
log rail. They were clearly waiting with equine pa¬ 
tience the long overdue attention to which they had 
full right. 

The man disregarded their appeal; he was in a mood 
to disregard any duty that might have been his. Even 
the claims of his own stomach were forgotten in the 
169 


170 The Saint of the Speedway 

consuming depths of impotent rage that were driving 
him. His expressionless eyes gazed out through the 
smudge of smoke which lolled heavily upon the still, 
fresh mountain air. His view was over the range of 
his gold workings, which lay down below upon the 
wide bank of the creek. But for all, his gaze was for 
the thing which held him to his mountain solitude, his 
thought was left all unconcerned for it. 

He had returned from Beacon only that noon. The 
long trail had claimed him for days, as the condition of 
his fleshless ponies testified. He had driven hard and 
mercilessly, for there was that behind him which im¬ 
pelled him in a fashion he had never known before. 
But the thing which had driven him had no relation to 
fear, or, if it had, his apprehension was utterly lost in 
the rage that smouldered behind his pale eyes. He had 
driven his ponies to their last extremity out of an al¬ 
most crazy desire for speed and movement that he 
might reach the security of his home for the sole pur¬ 
pose of nursing his fierce desire for swift vengeance 
upon Ivor McLagan. 

He sat with his rough hands clasped about his knees. 
He remained unmoving. There was room for nothing 
in the mind behind his stony stare but the fierce longing 
to hurt, and the method by which it could be achieved. 

He felt himself to be beyond the reach of the men 
of the Aurora Clan. He felt himself free from every 
threatening human danger, lost in the heart of these 
distant hills. As for the threat of that which his re¬ 
turn to Beacon might mean, he dismissed it without a 
moment's consideration. He intended to return to 
Beacon just whenever it suited him. It might entail 
watchfulness. It would undoubtedly entail sufficient 
weapons of defence. But he never moved without 


The “Come-back” 


171 


these. And in the open and in the daylight fully pre¬ 
pared, he knew himself to be a match for these ab¬ 
surdly tricked out bunglers who sought to impress their 
will upon a foolish, credulous, awed bunch of white- 
livered citizens. 

No. It was not against the men of the Aurora Clan 
that his fury was directed. He held them in contempt 
for all they had forced from him an oath under threat 
of hanging. He knew well enough the nearness to 
disaster to which he had been brought. He knew they 
had meant their threat and would have hanged him 
out of hand had he failed to yield his oath. Their 
other doings were not unknown to him. He had 
heard of Bernard’s and other outrages, but the whole 
thing had left him unimpressed. When men were 
driven to spectre-play to achieve their ends he felt that 
sufficient boldness could defeat them all the time. So 
these white-shirted creatures with their cedar boughs, 
and rawhide hanging ropes, were dismissed from his 
mind leaving him free to contemplate that other who 
had brought about his undoing at the Speedway. 

Ivor McLagan! Oh, he knew the man by reputa¬ 
tion. Furthermore, he knew the work he was engaged 
upon and where that work was being done and this was 
the man against whom all his rage and desire for 
vengeance were directed. 

Once he released his clasped hands, and, reaching 
out one heavily booted foot, kicked the embers of 
his fire together. With the sunset the air of the moun¬ 
tains was chill enough. For all the man’s toughness, 
for all the thick pilot cloth of his pea-jacket, and the 
thick flannel he wore underneath, the chill bit harshly 
and forced him to regard the life of his fire. He flung 
a number of logs on to it from his near-by stack of 


172 The Saint of the Speedway 

fuel and edged closer to the leaping blaze. Then 
again his arms embraced his knees, and he yielded him¬ 
self to the schemes and plans which sprang so readily 
to his mind. 

The wound inside his lips was still raw where Mc- 
Lagan’s blow had split open the flesh against his teeth. 
But he needed no reminder. He never would need re¬ 
minding. The memory of that night was indelibly 
fixed upon a mind which was utterly incapable of for¬ 
getting an injury. But such evidence as still remained 
only the more surely drove his headlong desire. He 
meant to kill Ivor McLagan, and the only problem that 
presented itself to him was the manner he should prefer 
for the accomplishment of his purpose. 

Oh, yes. He would kill McLagan. He would have 
killed him at the Speedway, or some time that night, 
but for the men who had smothered him in their num¬ 
bers. Well, he was beyond their interference now. 
He was out in the open. There was only the open be¬ 
tween him and McLagan, a vast, rugged back country, 
where there was no human agency to interfere between 
him and his vengeance. Yes, out there they were far 
hidden from the rest of the world with only the hills 
to fling back the death-cry he would wring from 
his- 

He broke off from his lusting thought. A broad 
beam of the dying sun’s light drove its way through 
the loose arms of a woodland bluff. It lit the ground 
on which he sat, and enveloped his hunched body. He 
turned with all the alertness he might have displayed 
in the presence of an enemy, and his expressionless 
eyes looked into the blaze of light. For a moment the 
illusion was complete. Low down on the horizon the 
sun was sinking to its final rest, and as it passed from 


The “Come-back” 


173 


view it looked like a world of consuming fire devouring 
the woods which lay in the path of its amazing light. 

It was only for an instant that his narrowed eyes 
confronted the intolerable burden of its fierce light. 
Then he sprang to his feet and moved away, and his 
going was something almost precipitate, headlong. In 
a moment he had vanished within the doorway of his 
primitive home. 

The moon was at the full of its glory. The night 
was no less cloudless than had been the close of day. 
The sky was ablaze with stars, but from the heart of 
the hills no aurora was visible. 

Down on the creek below Cy Liskard’s home the 
world seemed severely limited. On either hand, before 
and behind, the hills rose sharply in every direction. 
It was overpowering, overwhelming. The sky above 
was transformed into a narrow canopy, with the silver 
of the moon shining directly down upon the bosom of 
the little creek. The region was brilliantly lit by its 
ghostly light. Every detail of it was sharply outlined, 
and it flung the ghostly shadows of the trees in every 
direction. Then the waters of the creek, still flowing 
with something of their Spring freedom, were trans¬ 
formed into a perfect ribbon of silver. 

Midnight was gone and the small hours were slowly 
growing. The valley was full of the strange night 
sounds of a creature world whose day it was. Cries 
came echoing down through the forest which clothed 
the hillsides, and the voices of water life kept up an 
incessant chorus. It was a world of Nature’s unut¬ 
terable peace—and something else. 

There was movement about the banks of the creek. 
There was movement amongst the gear of the gold- 


174 The Saint of the Speedway 

seeker. So, too, was it on the broad hillside about the 
cabin where Cy Liskard had abandoned himself to the 
blankets which nightly claimed him. It was the silent, 
ghostly movement of white-robed figures. They stood 
out in sharp relief under the brilliant light of the moon. 
They came and passed on. They paused. They 
crouched, searching. They moved without haste, or 
apparent fear of disturbance. And their long white 
gowns and high-peaked head pieces transformed them 
from living humanity into the spirits of the night. 

The thing that was in progress was plain enough to 
read. The white-clad figures were searching the valley 
of the gold workings for information of the “strike” 
which the sleeping man had made. Their movement 
made it impossible to estimate their numbers with any 
accuracy, for the forest, reaching down to the water’s 
edge in many places, hid up much of it. Possibly there 
were a dozen. Possibly less. But, whatever the num¬ 
ber, the search was utterly exhaustive. The corral, 
the log hut on the hillside were not left unexplored, 
and the presence of the man’s dogs only made it some¬ 
thing curious that no canine voice had been raised in 
protest. 

There was not a sound to disturb the night or to 
give alarm to the sleeping man. The dogs lay huddled 
on the ground as though in the deepest slumber and the 
man slept on profoundly while the figures moved about 
the interior of his quarters. 

It was all curious. But there was doubtless an an¬ 
swer to it. These men had travelled far and hard 
under the strictest orders to return with a full report 
of the gold strike made by Cy Liskard. Their report 
depended on a complete and uninterrupted investiga¬ 
tion. There were many means of accomplishing this. 


The “Come-back” 


175 


It would have been simple enough to deal with the man 
himself. In their numbers they could have taken him 
in his blankets. But perhaps they had no desire that 
he should be aware of their visitation. In that case 
there were other measures. Similar measures such as 
had doubtless silenced the dogs. A whiff of some 
pungent narcotic and the sleep of these creatures, hu¬ 
man as well as canine, would be infallibly prolonged. 

The search went on to its conclusion. It was pro¬ 
longed and completely thorough. And when the move¬ 
ments of the Aurora men ceased and their ghostly 
figures no longer haunted the valley, the moon had 
passed from her throne in the heavens and the star¬ 
light was already beginning to fade out. Then came 
darkness, utter and complete. It was the darkness 
preceding dawn. And the valley of the Lias River 
was given up wholly to the haunting sounds of the 
night. 

Cy Liskard was ashore at a landing on the river he 
had made his own. His stout canoe was lying moored 
to the overhanging trunk of a tree, and it swung away 
at the end of its rawhide to the easy stream. A roll of 
blankets lay in the bottom of it while his camp outfit 
was littered upon the gravelly foreshore about his feet. 
It was noon or thereabouts, and the day was overcast 
and threatening. But down here on the river was the 
pleasant warmth of a summer day. 

He was gazing out downstream, and his view was 
of a great expanse of flowing water moving heavily 
on towards the sea. There were many miles between 
him and the coast yet. The journey would run into 
something approaching one hundred and more, which 
it would take days to travel. But it was not the dis- 


176 The Saint of the Speedway 

tance he had yet to go that preoccupied him. It was 
not the scene set out before him with its amazing hills 
and dense forests growing down to the water’s edge. 
He was literally and perhaps spiritually at the parting 
of the ways. 

Directly ahead of him a hill reared its lofty crest. 
It stood up an indestructible barrier to the rushing 
waters hurtling on towards the distant ocean. It had 
faced the fierce onslaught of the stream throughout 
the ages. It had yielded nothing but the loose soil 
about its rocky base. And so the waters which refused 
denial to their progress had turned sharply away in 
face of its heroic resistance. 

Somewhere to the north of that hill he knew that 
another river flowed over an almost parallel course. 
It was a smaller river which owed its source to the 
same world of hills as that which bred the flood of the 
Lias. But it was not for its proximity he was con¬ 
cerned. It was not for its relation to his own. It was 
because, somewhere further down its course, Ivor Mc- 
Lagan’s oil camp was pitched. And Ivor McLagan 
was the man who had hurt and thwarted him. 

Somehow the night had at first wrought a change in 
the almost insane mood in which Cy Liskard had 
sought his blankets. He had awakened heavily, with 
a feeling of unusual depression. He had awakened 
without any yearning for immediate action against the 
man who had hurt him. He had found himself con¬ 
templating his future outlook without enthusiasm or 
deep interest, and it was not until he had broken his 
fast, and perfunctorily executed the simple chores he 
was accustomed to perform, that his evil spirit re¬ 
turned to its full dominion. 


The “Come-back” 


177 


But even then he had been incapable of rising to the 
pitch of desire which had stirred him the night before. 
Perhaps it was the balance of sanity reasserting itself. 
Perhaps it was the result of that long, deep sleep which 
had robbed him of the night vision of the movements 
of the men of the Aurora Clan. Whatever it was, he 
decided definitely that his vengeance upon Ivor Mc- 
Lagan could wait. There was all the summer for that, 
and meanwhile, there was urgent work lying ahead of 
him in another direction. Perhaps a year more of 
these solitudes and his work would be finished. Yes, 
in that time he would have completed everything. And 
the while, McLagan would have forgotten and lulled 
himself into a sense of security. Then, at his 
leisure- 

So he had gone about his simple preparations. He 
prepared his boat down on the river. He loaded it with 
his camp outfit and provisioned it. Then he turned his 
ponies loose to fend for themselves on such mountain 
feed as they could find in his absence. And his trail 
dogs he treated in similar fashion. These creatures 
were subsidiary. His boat was the thing he knew and 
understood. 

But this more temperate mood had been in the early 
morning. Since then there had been hours of labour 
on his journey downstream. And the work of it had 
lightened the dullness of his earlier inspiration. By 
high noon he had been completely flung back upon his 
desire for the life of the man he had encountered in 
Beacon. 

So he stood before the great bend of the river where 
the angry waters beat impotently against the foot of 
the mountain and raced away to the south in search of 



178 The Saint of the Speedway 

the outlet they refused to be denied. And all his pas¬ 
sion for revenge was burning deep behind his soulless 
eyes. 

Why should he wait ? Why should he deny himself ? 
There was all summer for the rest as well as for that 
other. Why not reverse the thing? The rest could 
wait, far more easily wait than the vengeance he de¬ 
sired. It would be better so. For just so long as 
Ivor McLagan lived, he, Liskard, would never know 
peace of mind. What was it? At the most a ten or 
twelve mile portage to the north of that hill. He had 
made it before when he had looked to discover for 
what purpose his neighbours were around. Yes. And 
the Alsek was an easy river. He could pass down it 
at his leisure until he came to the oil camp. He could 
cache his boat while he searched the place for the man 
whose life he desired. Then, if he were not there but 
down at the river mouth where he had built his crazy 
home on the cliffs, he could pass on down beyond the 
camp in the night and stalk his quarry. 

It would be easy—so easy. There would be no need 
to take chances. His rifle could do the job at his 
leisure. The man's home was perched up for long- 
range shots. He could remain under cover- 

Yes, the rest could wait. It must wait. His desire 
was overwhelming, irresistible. He would eat at once 
and pass over to the landing he knew of at the foot of 
the mountain. The water was turbulent enough there. 
There were rapids of no mean proportions to be nego¬ 
tiated. But they were nothing to him—nothing this 
river could show him could match his watercraft. 

He moved back from the water's edge. His de¬ 
cision was final. So he prepared a fire for his noon 
meal. 


CHAPTER XIV 


In the Sunshine 

“T’M kind of glad you could run down, Peter. I’ve 
put that report through to our people. This is 
the message I handed ’em.” 

Ivor McLagan held out the copy of the message he 
had despatched from Beacon, and, while his assistant 
read it, he stood with narrowed eyes gazing down upon 
the wrecked vessel standing high out of the waters of 
the bay below. 

He had not long returned from Beacon, and Peter 
Loby had made a special trip down the river to meet 
him. Deeply as McLagan was concerned for any fur¬ 
ther news his subordinate might have brought from 
the camp on the river, the wreck below had lost none 
of its interest for him. In fact, for some unexplained 
reason, it had taken even a firmer hold upon his im¬ 
agination. 

Curiosity had by no means a prominent place in his 
psychology. Ordinarily he was not seriously con¬ 
cerned for happenings which had no intimate relation to 
the affairs of his life. He was sufficiently self-centred 
in the work that was his to leave such a thing as the 
sudden appearance of a derelict of the sea, flung almost 
on his doorstep, a thing without more than passing 
interest, after he had ascertained that no human life 
stood in need , of his succour. But strangely enough 
the vessel lying upon its deathbed below him, claimed 
him with greater force than he would have cared to 
179 


180 The Saint of the Speedway 

admit. His mind had been full of it on his journey 
into Beacon. Its memory had remained with him and 
deeply increased its spell, as he made his report to Alan 
Goodchurch, and his journey back to his home on the 
cliffs had been made with haste inspired by the strange 
feeling of unrest with which the thought of those last 
moments he had spent on the deck of the vessel had 
filled him. 

Now the wreck was standing out amidst its rugged 
surroundings, under a blaze of sunshine, and, as his 
gaze took in its details, his mind was full of question¬ 
ing and unease. The condition of the vessel had ap¬ 
parently changed very little. The tides that had passed 
since his first visit to it had left it wholly undisturbed. 
Its sails were in worse shape, and their tattered remains 
fluttered and whipped furiously in the breeze and sent 
the gulls screaming as they sought to find resting place 
on the creaking yards. But he was not thinking of 
any of these things. No, he was thinking- 

Peter looked up from his reading. 

“That’s a good report, McLagan,” he conceded with 
a grin. “It’s a deal better done than mine. I surely 
guess that’ll set our folks smiling a mile wide.” He 
drew a deep breath. “Well, they can keep right on 
grinning. They’re on a bonanza, or I’m all sorts of a 
mutt.” 

He gazed up into the face of his chief as he offered 
his frank comment and passed back the copy of the 
message. 

“It makes me feel good,” he went on quickly, “stand¬ 
ing around out here, perched right up on this darn 
rock breathing good sea air an’ soaking in elegant sun¬ 
shine with our play coming right. Makes the world 
seem right someway. Makes me sort of feel I want 


In the Sunshine 


181 


to holler like a school kid on Thanksgiving Day. Oil ? 
It’s the most crazily wonderful thing in the world—• 
when you strike it.” 

‘Yes.” 

McLagan’s response was without a shadow of the 
other’s enthusiasm and Peter turned questioningly. 
Instantly he realised the direction of his chief’s 
gaze and the meaning of his preoccupation. He chuck¬ 
led. 

“I’d forgot that crazy barge,” he said. Then he 
added: “You handed Goodchurch the dope?” 

The difference in the attitude of these men was pro¬ 
foundly marked. The lean, practical oil man was alert 
and thrilling with the prospect lying ahead of the work 
they were both engaged upon. The wreck and the 
atmosphere of mystery which it had originally im¬ 
pressed upon him had entirely passed out of his con¬ 
cern. He had witnessed the wreck. He had explored 
it. He had shared in the risk of that first approach. 
But none of these things, not even the vision of the 
deserting rats, had been sufficient to persist in a mind 
absorbed in his lifetime’s pursuit of oil. The affairs of 
the oil prospect were paramount with him, first, last 
and all the time. And the report he had just perused 
represented something approaching the crowning of his 
life’s work. But at that moment, oil and coal were 
the two things farthest from McLagan’s mind. 

The latter moved away and approached the edge of 
the wide ledge upon which his hut was set. Peter 
moved up beside him and bit a chew of tobacco from 
the disreputable fragment of plug tobacco which he 
carried in his hip-pocket. 

As McLagan nodded his gaze was still upon the 
wreck below. 


182 The Saint of the Speedway 

“Surely,” he said. “I handed it the best I could, 
and Goodchurch guessed things would need looking 
into. He took down the name of the ship and its port 
of registration. He’s wiring right away to the proper 
authority and promised to get it broadcast by wireless. 
I asked him for that. You see, I kind of got a hunch 
the folks who quit that vessel might be glad to locate 
her—if they’re alive. He reckons we’ll likely get 
word from the owners. You know, Peter, I feel tiler’s 
a mighty queer story lying back of that wreck.” 

“You mean—the boats—and-” 

McLagan shook his head. He was gazing out to sea 
now and stood abstractedly filling his pipe. 

“No,” he said. Then his eyes came back again to 
the scene of the wreck with the screaming sea-birds 
circling about it. “Psha!” he cried impatiently. 
“What’s the use? Yes, the boats if you like. It’s the 
whole darn thing. It’s got me guessing, so I can’t 
forget it.” 

Peter chuckled. 

“That’s all right,” he said. “It don’t worry me a 
thing. It’s oil for mine. You can play around with 
all the wrecks if you fancy that way. I’m beating it 
right back to camp.” 

McLagan nodded. 

“Yes. It’s oil, not wrecks, for you an’ me,” he said, 
as though striving to convince himself. “I know that. 
But—yes, you beat it right back to camp and I’ll be 
along up the moment I touch the answer our folks send 
to that report. I’ll just wait around for that. I’m 
figgering there’ll be a big move on that new field when 
we get word. The drilling we’re doing now looks like 
it’ll be a circumstance to the thing coming. Maybe 
I’ll even have to run down to Seattle, after I’ve made 



In the Sunshine 183 

my own inspection. Still, that won’t be till the late 
fall” 

Peter agreed, his keen eyes lighting afresh. 

‘That’s how it looks to me,” he said. 

“Yes. Are you stopping around to eat?” 

“No. I’ll make camp on the river. I’ll pass up on 
slack water and grab the tide later.” Peter laughed 
and nodded down at the wreck. “You’ll get another 
look at that while you’re waiting reply from our folks,” 
he observed slily. 

“Sure I will.” McLagan looked round quickly as he 
thrust his pipe into the corner of his mouth, and his 
strong jaws shut tight on its well-bitten stem. “Just 
as soon as you beat it.” 

“I thought so.” Peter was chuckling. “Well, it 
doesn’t rattle me a thing. The only thing worrying 
me is the yarn lying back of the coal belt we’ve located. 
I’m sure crazy to get after that. So—I’ll beat it. So 
long.” 

McLagan smiled at the other’s thrust. 

“So long, boy.” 

He stood gazing after the slim figure of his lieu¬ 
tenant as he hurried towards the head of the pathway 
down from the ledge on which they were standing. He 
waited till the last of his cloth cap vanished below the 
level. Then he lit his pipe and turned again to his 
absorbed contemplation of the mystery boat below. 

The breeze was dead flat. It was low water. In 
something under an hour the tide would be starting its 
flood again. Meanwhile, the sky had clouded over. 
But it was without any storming threat. It was only 
the fleecy shading which came so frequently with the 
change of tide. 


184 The Saint of the Speedway 

Sasa Mannik’s eyes had curiously widened as they 
gazed up into the face of the man he served. They 
were alight with all the superstitious fear of his kind. 
He had just concluded a long and almost incoherent 
protest which his boss’s demand for his assistance 
aboard the wreck had brought forth. 

McLagan’s face was frowning. His eyes were 
coldly contemptuous. He stood a towering figure over 
the sturdy little man who was in open revolt. 

“You’re worse than a darn fool, Sasa,” he said 
sharply. “You’re a low, miserable coward. You’re 
the worst coward I know. You’re such a coward you’d 
run a mile from a jack-rabbit. You make me sick to 
death, and I feel like sending you to hell out of my 
service. I tell you there’s not a thing to this poor 
darn wreck to scare a buck louse. There’s not a thing. 
She’s dead and done, and there’s not a living soul 
aboard.” Then he changed his tone from condemna¬ 
tion to derision. “What the hell scares you about her ? 
What d’you think she’s got aboard her? Devils or— 
what?” 

The half-breed turned away. He glanced down at 
his own boat lying half out of water on the smooth 
surface of the rocks on which it had been hauled up. 
Perhaps he desired to reassure himself it was still there 
for his safe retreat. A moment later he turned again 
to the white man, and from him he gazed up at the 
high sides of the great vessel which loomed mon¬ 
strously as they stood on the slippery rocks below it. 
And as he gazed up at the hated object his eyes further 
widened, and he spoke in a tone that was almost a 
whine. 

“Maybe, boss,” he said. He shook his dark head 
vigorously. “This thing bad. So bad. I see him 


In the Sunshine 


185 

same lak you see him, too. I know. It in your eye 
when you look. You scare, too, plenty. You not 
know. I know. I much coward this thing. Nothing 
else I scare lak him dis. I not go aboard. Never.” 

McLagan’s gaze was compelling. He held the other 
while he put his question. 

“This thing? What did you see?” he asked sharply. 

The half-breed shifted his position uneasily. He 
sought to avoid the white man’s questioning eyes. He 
turned away. But his fearful eyes came swiftly back 
to those they had sought to avoid. 

“I not speak this thing,” he said in a low, surly tone. 
“It bad. What you ask him ? You see. Oh, yes. I 
know.” 

He made a movement. It was almost like a shudder. 
Then without waiting he passed down to his boat. 

“Sasa!” 

McLagan’s voice brought the terrified creature to a 
standstill. He turned and waited. And then he heard 
the white man laugh as he flung his final orders. 

“You take your boat and go back to the beach. You 
wait there till I hail you. If you leave that beach till I 
hail you I’ll beat the life out of you. Now go.” 

McLagan had made no further attempt at investi¬ 
gation of the secrets of the wrecked vessel. It was 
with an unusual feeling of repulsion that he climbed 
up through the gloomy precincts of the forepeak. And 
somehow the memory of the half-breed’s accusation 
stung him sharply, as, involuntarily, his searching gaze 
sought to penetrate the darkness surrounding him. In 
his heart he felt the man was not without justification 
in his charge. From the moment he had set foot on 
the ladder a strange sensation took hold of him, and, 


186 The Saint of the Speedway 

with every upward step, he wondered what revelation 
the next would yield. 

Once on deck, however, the uncanny sensation 
passed. Here was daylight. Here were the things 
he knew and recognised. But somehow he did not 
want to use the forepeak again, and forthwith he set 
about discovering some other means of reaching the 
deck. 

He found it quickly. It was there lying amidst some 
sprawled gear upon the deck, besides a stack of lumber. 
It was a long rope companion ladder with broad teak- 
wood steps. It was still secured to the down haul 
cleats against the ship’s rail near the main mast where 
it had evidently been flung by some previous user. And 
he dropped it over the vessel’s side, and saw that it 
reached almost to the rocks below. 

His view was out over the bay. And from where 
he stood he could see his hut perched high on the cliffs, 
and, below, the long, low line of the distant beach. He 
smiled to himself as he beheld the figure of Sasa busy 
mooring his fishing boat. He knew that for all his 
rebellious mood, the half-breed would very literally 
obey his final orders. 

He turned away. His searching gaze took in the 
deck in every direction. It was the same, precisely, as 
he had found it on his first visit. The litter of gear 
was in evidence everywhere. The stacked lumber. 
There was the canvas-sheathed winch with its close- 
hauled raking arm. The galley with its steel door ajar. 
Then the closely battened main hatch, and, beyond it, 
the break of the small poop-deck above, with its two 
alleyways, one to the cabin, and one to the half-deck 
on the starboard side. Yes. It was all just as he had 
left it, and he glanced quickly up at the sky. 


In the Sunshine 


187 


There was a thin overcast of cloud, but still with¬ 
out any threat of storm. Even the restless ocean breeze 
had flattened out, and the usually protesting gear above 
him was completely silent. 

McLagan had told himself that he wanted to explore 
the hundred and one details which he knew must have 
escaped him at his first visit. There were the battened 
holds. There were those cabins which Peter and the 
half-breed had looked into. There were the pantry, and 
the half-deck. All these things he had promised him¬ 
self to look into. It was his excuse for his visit. But 
he knew that in reality they had little enough to do with 
his coming now. It was that other thing which had 
brought him there. That thing which had inspired 

terror in the half-breed’s heart, and- He moved 

over to the cabin alleyway and leant against the break 
of the poop. And he stood gazing down the deck in 
the direction of the winch as he had stood there once 
before. 

For all Sasa’s challenge McLagan’s nerve was com¬ 
pletely unruffled. He was a man of cool Courage and 
utterly ungiven to vain imaginings. Imagination was 
by no means lacking, but it was under the perfect con¬ 
trol of a completely healthy mind. 

He remained for some time in the position he had 
taken up, and smoked contentedly for all the expec¬ 
tancy in his eyes. But after awhile, wearying of his 
vigil, he moved away, and squatted himself on the bat¬ 
tened hatch in precisely the position which Sasa Mannik 
had once occupied. Here he hunched himself with his 
arms locked about his knees, and sat regarding the 
long prospect of the littered deck. 

The trend of his thought had remained unchanged. 
And the look in his eyes retained its unvarying expec- 



188 The Saint of the Speedway 

tancy, even when now and again he turned them sky¬ 
wards searching the summer shading. Time seemed 
to concern him not at all. That presently the flood tide 
would begin, and there might be difficulty for Sasa 
to bring his boat alongside, did not seem to enter his 
thought. He sat there completely preoccupied with the 
thing that was in his mind, and luxuriating in the com¬ 
fort of his pipe. 

Suddenly he started. And his watchful eyes 
changed from expectancy to a flashing alertness. A 
sound had broken up the perfect quiet. It was a 
sound that had no relation to creaking gear, or the 
flap of sail cloth, or the raucous screaming of sea-fowl. 
Seemingly it had no relation to anything he under¬ 
stood. For he remained precisely where he was, wait¬ 
ing, while his eyes focussed on the spot whence the 
sound came. 

It came from nearby to the main-mast. It came 
from somewhere just abreast of the carefully covered 
winch. There was the galley entrance there, and be¬ 
yond that a stack of stowed lumber- 

He started to his feet, and the look in his eyes had 
changed again. He was smiling. A head had appeared 
over the vessel's rail. It was a head adorned by a 
woman’s modish hat, with, underneath it, a face the 
sight of which filled him with nothing but delight. He 
hurried down the deck. 

“Why, say, Claire,” he cried. “How did you- 

Here, wait. Get a grip on my hand. You shouldn’t 
have-” 

There was a moment of effort while McLagan took 
firm hold of the girl’s two small hands. Then after a 
struggle, a little breathlessly, she jumped lightly down 
from the rail and stood beside him on the deck. 




In the Sunshine 


189 


“I just had to come, Ivor,” she cried, gazing curi¬ 
ously about her while she made her explanation. “I 
heard about it in town, and set out right away. Mum’s 
back there with the car on the hill road, and I came 
along down to the beach where I saw your man with 
his boat.” She laughed. “He didn’t want to, but I 
made him. I asked for you, and he said you were 
aboard here. I asked him why, and he said because 
you were ‘dam fool white man.’ Then I guess I offered 
him five dollars to bring me across, and he nearly threw 
a fit. He refused. But I insisted. It cost me ten be¬ 
fore I was through, and the threat you’d beat him if 
he didn’t. Even then he tried to dodge it and guessed 
you’d beat him if he left the beach. But I got my way. 
And--” 

“As you mostly do.” 

McLagan was thinking rapidly and with sudden deep 
concern. This girl was all the world to him, and her 
presence, her proximity filled him with a wild sensa¬ 
tion of joy that he was powerless to deny, that he made 
no attempt to deny. But, of a sudden, he had become 
horrified as he contemplated the real purpose of his 
own visit to the derelict. In a moment his mind was 
made up. By some means he must get her off the ship 
*—before- 

There was no smile in his eyes now. 

“I kind of wish you hadn’t, Claire. I guess I’ll have 
to deal with Sasa for disobeying his orders. He was 
told not to quit that beach for—anything.” 

The girl looked up into the man’s face and the flash 
of hot resentment in her eyes was unmistakable. But 
she shook her head and refused the impulse his rough¬ 
ness, his downright rudeness had stirred in her. Some¬ 
how she always found it easy to make excuse for him. 




190 The Saint of the Speedway 

“The same. Always the same,” she said impatiently, 
for all the smile she forced herself to. “Some day, 
Ivor, you’ll wake up and wonder the reason you were 
built with a rough tongue and a foolish grouch.” 

The man glanced quickly at the sky. Then he in¬ 
dicated the main hatch where he had been squatting 
and led the way towards it. He seated himself and 
left the girl standing. And promptly seized on the 
opening she had given him, and sought to drive home 
his purpose. At all costs he must get her away be¬ 
fore— 

“There’s times when a rough tongue’s needed. 
When a grouch is surely dead right,” he said, without 
any softening. “Is it right for women to give way to 
a sort of low curiosity to look into the trouble and 
bad luck helpless folk are up against? You came for 
that, Claire,” he said deliberately; “it was a swell drive 
out of Beacon to pass an idle time. I kind of wouldn’t 
have thought it of you.” 

It was one of those moments when the engineer felt 
that somehow he ought to have done better. He 
wanted to drive this girl away. And on the spur of 
the moment it was the only thing he could think of. 
He wanted to get her off that vessel without explana¬ 
tion. And so he designed to anger her as the simplest, 
most direct method of achieving his purpose. 

But the whole thing missed fire for the reason that 
Claire was shrewd, and knew him, and because her 
reason for coming was something which had far deeper 
object than the idle curiosity of which he accused her. 

The blaze of anger he had expected was not forth¬ 
coming. Claire’s colour heightened, and her soft blue 
eyes were less wide as she gazed down into his plain, 
unsmiling face. Then the corners of her mouth 



In the Sunshine 


191 


dropped. And somehow her whole expression sug¬ 
gested distress to the man who so absolutely worshipped 
her. She shook her head slowly. 

“Not curiosity, Ivor,” she said. “Not that.” Then 
a shadowy smile lit her eyes. “And as for the swell 
drive to pass an idle time, I’d have said you knew the 
Beacon trail better than that. If you don’t, why, just 
ask Mum, and get a look at the tires of our automobile. 
If you’d had some one you guessed the sun rose and 
set in who was travelling home to you in a ship that’s 
never been heard of since she handed out an S.O.S., 
why, it seems to me you’d feel like chasing the ends 
of the earth to get a look at any old wreck that blew 
in on to the rocks from Australia to the Arctic. Curi¬ 
osity?” she cried scornfully. “Well, you can call it 
that way if you fancy it. I’m here because I couldn’t 
live with peace in my mind till I knew this boat wasn’t 
the one that should have brought our Jim back to us.” 

The girl’s reply drove a wave of contrition surging 
through the man’s heart. He felt as though he had 
struck her a blow in the face. He felt as though he 
wanted to flee before the gentle reproach he inter¬ 
preted in the look in her half-smiling eyes. And 
yet- He glanced uneasily up at the sky. 

“Your Jim’s ship was the Imperial of Bristol, 
Claire. You told me that months back,” he expostu¬ 
lated. “This is the Limpet of Boston. Your Jim 
wouldn’t have been aboard a coaster like this. Beating 
it from Australia he’d have been on a swell ocean-going 
vessel. Goodchurch knew all about this wreck. You 
must have got its name. I’d handed him the story 
myself and all the details. He should have told you 
and saved you from the Beacon trail. Say, little girl, 
I’m sorry I handed you that. I didn’t think, or- 



192 The Saint of the Speedway 

You see, I know all your brother meant to you. We’ve 
talked about it, you and me, and maybe I ought to have 
guessed right away when I saw your dandy face peek¬ 
ing over that darn old rail.” 

Again he looked anxiously up at the sky as a crack 
of the tattered sails warned him that the breeze was 
springing up with the flood tide. 

“But I just tell you we daresn’t stop around here. 
You don’t know this bay like Sasa and I do. The tide’s 
setting in, and in a few minutes ther’ll be no getting 
off these rocks in Sasa’s boat or any other. It’s the 
most devilish place in the world. It was that current 
that caught and drove this poor blamed barge high and 
dry. We must get away right- Eh?” 

The girl had suddenly reached out a pointing finger. 
She had clutched his arm violently. 

“My God! What’s—that?” 

The cry broke from her in a low, almost inarticulate 
fashion. She was standing facing down the deck, her 
horrified gaze fixed on a spot on the deck in line with 
the canvas-sheathed winch. Her face had blanched to 
ashen whiteness, and the arm held out pointing was 
shaking like an aspen. 

McLagan was on his feet beside her, and somehow 
her clutching hand had fallen into one of his. He held 
it tightly as he, too, gazed down the deck in the beam 
of sunlight which had broken through the haze of 
cloud which the breeze had stirred. 

“What do you see ?” he cried quickly, in a low, sup¬ 
pressed tone. “Tell me, Claire. I want to know. I 
can see it, too. But I want to know the thing you see.” 

“It’s—it’s the shadow—of a man. See?” The girl 
was staring straight in front of her and her voice was 
faltering. But the arm she still held out had steadied 


In the Sunshine 


193 


under the influence of McLagan’s presence and touch. 
“Oh,” she went on, with a gasp. “He’s coming towards 
us. I—I can’t stand it. He’s big, too, and—and— 
Oh, God!—for pity’s sake, Ivor, take me away—take 
me away!” 

But the man made no attempt to obey her. Instead 
his words came gently and full of confidence and en¬ 
couragement. 

“Stand your ground, little girl,” he urged. “Quit 
your scare. I’m right here, and nothing’s going to do 
you hurt. It was this I was trying to save you from. 
The sight of it. It’ll pass with the sun. It’s just a 
queer shadow, and doesn’t mean a thing—to hurt. I’ve 
seen it before, and know about it. It’s the sun makes 
us see it. But it’s queer. It hasn’t a thing to do with 
the gear above. Look. Its outline’s in the air. An’ 
its shadow’s on the deck. See? It’s the outline of a 
man, a big man. He’s carrying something in two 
hands. You can’t see what it is. You can’t see any 
face. Just an outline. And he’s walking this way 
and don’t come any nearer. Isn’t it queer? What is 
it? A spook, or—or a trick of the sun? Say, it’s 
queer. Ah!” He drew a deep breath. “Look, it’s 
fading out. It’s going with the sun. Look! That’s 
better. Now—now it’s gone.” 

The sun had suddenly passed behind the clouds again. 
And as it did so the shadow had completely disappeared. 

Claire drew a deep sigh. On the instant the man’s 
arm was flung out to her support. But it was unneces¬ 
sary. For all the ghastly hue of her cheeks, the utter 
pallor of her lips, the girl was not of the fainting sort. 
He watched the slow return of her colour with anxious, 
troubled eyes. 

Suddenly she spoke. Her eyes were still on the spot 


194 The Saint of the Speedway 

where the terrifying shadow had moved so meaning- 
lessly. 

“Let’s—let’s get away, Ivor,” she said, in a low, 
hushed tone. “It—it was a ghost—a—I—I-” 

McLagan resorted to the only thing his mind sug¬ 
gested. He laughed. He felt it was the only thing in 
face of the girl’s condition. 

“I guess it’s a mighty harmless spook, anyway,” he 
said lightly. “The poor darn thing’s pinned right down 
to that spot. He hasn’t moved a yard since I first 
located him days back. But maybe you’re right though, 
kid. There’s no sort of use standing around gawking 
at a fool spectre that hasn’t sense but to stand around 
waiting to show himself when the sun shines. He 
ought to know better. Moonlight’s his playtime. Yes, 
come right along, and we’ll beat it back to your Mum.” 

For all the man’s banter he hurried the girl down the 
deck, carefully avoiding the spot where the shadow had 
stood. They stood for a moment at the down-haul 
cleats, and Claire looked back over the deck. She felt 
safer here. There was McLagan, big and smiling. 
And there, beside her, was the means of retreat. 

“I guess I’m not brave, Ivor,” she smiled a little 
pathetically. “When it comes to that sort of thing I’m 
like dead mutton. I’m not scared of a thing living. 
But the dead-” 

“Dead?” 

Claire nodded. 

“Sure. Some one was killed right there. A big man. 
Do you wonder this vessel blew right in here without 
a soul on board? I don’t.” 

She turned to the rail, and the man moved to her 
assistance. 

“Can you manage that ladder, Claire ?” He had no 


In the Sunshine 


195 

comment to offer concerning her summing up of the 
thing they had both witnessed. His only desire at the 
moment was her safe departure from the mystery boat 
and its haunting. “Can you? ,, he went on. 

Then of a sudden he reached out and caught her 
slight body in his arms. In a moment he had lifted her 
on to the rail and held her safely while she set her feet 
on the rungs of the ladder beyond it. He waited while 
she lowered herself step by step. He was still holding 
her warm, soft hands firmly in his when her now smil¬ 
ing thankful eyes came on a level with his. 

“It's all right, Ivor,” she nodded. “Guess I’m safe 
now. But, but you’re strong lifting me that way. 
You’re coming right along down, too.” 

“Yes,” he said. “Sure I am.” For an instant the 
blood surged to his head. The pretty eyes, the sweet 
face were so near, so very near to his. But slowly it 
receded, and, as the girl passed below the rail, McLagan 
drew a deep breath. He turned abruptly. His gaze 
was down the deck where the shadow had been. Then 
he glanced at the sky. The next moment he passed 
over the ship’s rail and followed the girl. 


CHAPTER XV 


The Man from the Hills 
HE labour of it was tremendous. The sturdy 



1 ponies were a-lather with sweat in the pleasant 
warmth of the summer day. Their burden ordinarily 
was sufficiently light. A rattling, aged buckboard 
driven by the man they had known for nearly five 
years. It contained no outfit, no burden of any sort 
but the reckless teamster who had literally made the 
trail by his own many journeys between his home 
and the city of Beacon Glory. But it was the final 
stage of the journey. A heart-bursting haul up an 
incline steeper than one in four. 

At the summit were rest and feed in plenty. Unlike 
other men in the region using horse labour, McLagan 
cared for his ponies better than he would care for 
himself. He worked them to the limit if need be, 
but his care of them was the same. In his undemon¬ 
strative, unsentimental fashion he loved his shaggy, 
stocky Alaskan ponies, and saw to it that they knew 
it in the fashion they understood. 

Already the crowning plateau of his home was in 
view through the gaunt arms of the tattered forest trees 
with which the track was lined. A hundred yards or 
so more and the labour of it would be over, and the 
ardent creatures would snuff the ocean breeze in their 
gushing nostrils. The man’s whip lay gently playing 
over the ponies’ backs, urgent for their last ounce of 
effort. He was leaning forward on the hard sprung 


196 


The Man from the Hills 197 

seat as though to spare them weight. It was an in¬ 
stinctive attitude that was of no real help. It was the 
attitude of a man accustomed to the saddle. 

McLagan was more urgent for his home just now 
than usual. He had gone into Beacon to meet the 
message he expected from his partners and employers. 
But that had been excuse. He had, in reality, made 
the journey for Claire Carver and her mother. On 
their return from the wreck in the bay they had 
discovered the girl’s mother in a state of panic. The 
automobile had been put completely out of action by 
the terrible road over which it had passed. Not a 
single one of its tires was standing up. The mother 
was helpless. The girl was in little better case. And 
McLagan did what he could in the way of repair. But 
it was quite useless. The outer covers were wrecked, 
and incapable of containing the inner tubes. 

In the end McLagan was able to impress on them 
sufficiently the immediate necessity of himself making 
a visit to Beacon. He assured them that he had long 
since planned it. That his business was pressing. And 
the good luck of it was that his buckboard would just 
carry the three of them, if they did not mind being 
somewhat packed into the seat and badly jolted. They 
had by no means minded. And the older woman sighed 
her relief as they planned to have a man sent out with 
new tires to fetch in the derelict automobile. 

“You know, Claire, girl,” she had said, in her down¬ 
right fashion, which no improvement in her fortunes 
had been able to modify, “them automobiles is liable to 
set folks thinkin’ you’re all sorts of a dame ridin’ 
around in ’em. But give me a team of decent moun¬ 
tain-bred plugs, with a bunch of grain inside ’em. 
Maybe they ain’t a blue streak of lightnin’, but they’ll 


198 The Saint of the Speedway 

mostly get you there an’ haul you back, which it’s a 
God's truth is a thing you can only guess about with 
one of these oil cans. Ivor's wise. Maybe his busi¬ 
ness depends on his bein' there to do it. So he gambles 
on these dandy four-legged creatures." 

And she had affectionately patted and stroked the 
warm flesh that was ready to help them in their emer¬ 
gency. 

The man had had a better reward than he had looked 
for. He had found his reply awaiting him at the mail 
office. A reply that he had never hoped to get until 
the heads of the Mountain Oil Corporation had held 
an important meeting. He realised that it must have 
been despatched within a day of the receipt of his 
report. It was a clear, definite, decided reply such as 
pleased him mightily. It was from the chairman of 
the Board of Directors. 

“Complete prospect earliest possible date. Sailing in ten 
weeks. Be with you early fall. Make all preparations for 
big forward move. Prospect for large territorial concession. 
Prepare everything. Big money.” 

The very brevity of the message was its greatest joy 
to McLagan. It was, he felt, the message of a big man 
unfettered by any smallness of consideration. His in¬ 
terpretation of it was no less big. To him it meant 
go right ahead, grab all you can, and to hell with the 
cost. And the engineer, being the man he was, needed 
no further urging. So he had spared his ponies on the 
home trail less than usual. 

He reached the plateau just as the sunset was at the 
height of its glory beyond the bay. The waters were 
dead flat, a mirror of liquid fire under the radiant 


The Man from the Hills 199 


light. Even the ugly, iron-bound coast was rendered 
something gracious for once in its ruthless existence. 

He had planned as he came along, absorbed in the 
prospect that lay ahead of him. The whole thing was 
quite simple. Everything must be got ready. He must 
set out on a big trip round with Peter. They must 
make a broad survey. He would set out with Sasa 
to join Peter at the camp. He would close up his 
shanty and quit it for the summer, or, at least, until 
the Directors had completed their inspection. Early 
fall. They would be with him in early fall to settle the 
final details. That was nearly three months from now. 
Yes. He could get everything ready for them by that 
time. 

Sasa took the hard-blowing team as it drew up at 
the log barn, and McLagan walked round the ponies 
and helped unhitch them. 

“Turn ’em loose, boy,” he said. “Let ’em get a roll, 
and feed ’em hay. Don’t water ’em till they cool. 
Then set ’em in the barn and push their blankets on. 
Feed ’em corn in two hours.” 

He passed on to the door of his hut. But he paused 
on the way. As he stepped out into the open the wreck 
of the Limpet came into his view. In a moment he 
had forgotten everything else as the memory of his 
last visit to the derelict came back to him. 

Somehow the whole episode had been swept out of 
his mind by the text of the message he had received 
from his own people. It could not have been otherwise 
in a man of his temper and purpose. He was at the 
threshold of a tremendous achievement which years 
of infinite labour had brought to his hand. Peter Loby 
was the oil man, the expert creature who dealt in drills, 
and pipes, and the immediate localities for his opera- 


200 The Saint of the Speedway 

tions. But it was McLagan whose knowledge and 
vision searched the territory. It was he who had first 
realised the possibilities of that black belt of territory 
which he had sent Loby to explore. His whole horizon 
was bounded by such prospecting, just as Peter’s was 
by oil. Yes, the news that these men of finance were 
ready to put themselves and their money behind his 
work had completely cleared his healthy brain of the 
cobwebs which his last visit to the Limpet had woven 
there. 

Now, however, it was different. Just as the other 
had overwhelmed every other consideration, the sight 
of the derelict flung memory back upon those things 
whiclyare never failing in their grip on human imagi¬ 
nation. 

He stood gazing down at the queer object and every 
vestige of his earlier enthusiasm for the work in hand 
faded out of his unsmiling eyes. He had forgotten. 
And now he remembered. And so he stood there, for 
all he was ready enough for the cooking food which 
Sasa had prepared, and which smelt so appetising on 
the still air. 

The sun sank lower upon the horizon. It dipped into 
the sea and lit a broad path across the bosom of the 
waters. The circling gulls screamed out their night 
chorus before perching for their rest. And all the time, 
deeper and more surely, the fascination of that derelict 
below took hold of him. 

At last MaLagan stirred. He unfastened the pea- 
jacket it was his habit to wear. Then he raised one 
hand and the palm of it was passed across his forehead 
thrusting back his cap in its gesture. He turned and 
called over his shoulder. 

“Sasa 1” 


The Man from the Hills 201 


The half-breed came sturdily across to him from 
behind the hut. And he stood there beside him follow¬ 
ing the direction of his gaze till his own rested upon 
the remains of the Limpet. 

“Your canoe. Your kyak. Is she in good shape ?” 

“Sure. Him all time same. I mak him so.” 

“You’ll beat it up the river to-night. Get it?” 

The dark-skinned creature looked up into the face of 
his boss. Then he turned away, for the white man was 
still gazing at the wreck below. 

“You’ll beat it up the river and fetch Mr. Loby 
right down here. You’ll beat it quick. You’ll tell him 
to have an outfit ready at the camp to go into the 
hills. He’ll know just what I mean. But he’s to come 
right—No. I’ll write it. I’ll give you a ‘brief’ to 
take to Mr. Loby. It’s nearly low water now. You 
can ride up on the tide.” 

He turned to pass into the hut. But the half-breed 
detained him. 

“Boss, you think dat ship all time. Yes, I know. 
I see him in your eye. Dam’ ship no good. Bad. I 
go, yes. You not go by dam’ ship with no man? You 
not go? No? It bad. So bad.” 

The man’s tone was almost beseeching. 

“You’re a damned coward, Sasa, as I told you be¬ 
fore,” McLagan laughed as he turned away. “You’re 
a damned coward about everything but the big water. 
You get busy right away. You’ve got to have Mr. 
Loby down here early to-morrow. I’ll write that brief 
for you.” 

The Alsek River had none of the greatness or splen¬ 
dour of its southern neighbour, the Lias. But then it 
flowed through a far different territory as it approached 


202 The Saint of the Speedway 

its mouth. Its lower reaches were marsh and tundra- 
bounded. It was a deep, sluggish channel occupying 
the lowest level in the heart of a wide muskeg, some 
thirty or forty miles in extent. Higher up, however, 
amidst the great hills, where lay the camp of the Moun¬ 
tain Oil Corporation, it lacked nothing of the scenic 
beauty of the hundreds of mountain creeks and rivers 
which scored the coast territory of the Alaskan Hills. 
In spring, under the fierce freshets, it was a roaring, 
blustering watercourse without mercy for any obstruc¬ 
tions in its path. In summer it was a shallow, shoaly 
stream of guile and treachery. 

Cy Liskard regretted the river he had made his own 
as his light craft passed out of the hill country and 
entered upon the flat of muskeg, which would continue 
until the barrier hills of the coast were reached. The 
Alsek River was not only ugly to him. It was a good 
deal more. He knew that the vivid, brilliant green of 
this limitless plain was one of Nature’s vilest snares. 
It was one vast, treeless swamp, thinly disguised by an 
alkali crust, and as bottomless as only a northern 
muskeg can be. It was without life, animal or human. 
Only was it swarming with wildfowl for whom it 
was a never-failing refuge from trap and gun. 

But he laboured indefatigably. He was running 
with the stream, his muscles at ease, but with mind and 
eye alert and uneasy. He knew the dangers of this 
dreary channel. It was deep enough. Oh, yes. He 
knew that. At times it was monstrously deep. But 
its sodden, reed-grown banks yielded no footing for 
landing; there were mud banks dotted throughout its 
course; and in its open channels masses of submerged 
weed flourished abundantly. So his vigilance was un- 


The Man from the Hills 203 


ceasing, and he drove a course whose constant zig-zag 
suggested incompetence. 

But there was no incompetence in Cy Liskard on 
the water. He travelled swiftly and without doubt or 
hesitation. For he meant to reach those distant coast 
hills with the last of the tide, driven hard by that which 
lay back of his mind. 

His search for his quarry about the oil camp in 
the hills had been fruitless. He had prosecuted it with 
infinite determination. He had lain cached when he 
encountered McLagan’s river men. He had well and 
truly covered his tracks, when at night he had recon¬ 
noitred the camp itself. Then, when he had ascertained 
beyond all possibility of doubt that the man he sought 
was not at the camp, he had passed on all undetected, 
unsuspected. Now he was on the last stages of his 
journey to the coast. The coast and that crazy, high- 
perched shanty overlooking the bay. 

Cy Liskard betrayed no outward sign. He looked to 
belong to the long trail of the wilderness whose peace 
and calm his soulless eyes expressed so well. His outfit 
looked to be the outfit of those who live by trap and 
gun, and the protruding muzzle of a modern rifle over 
the curved bows of his craft increased the illusion. But 
his purpose was no less for these things. Perhaps, 
even, it was the contrary. 

The miles passed rapidly behind him. They drifted 
away on a winding course that flashed and gleamed in 
the brilliant summer daylight. But for all his speed, 
the outlook seemed to remain the same, the distant hills 
to come no nearer. 

But they were approaching very rapidly. And, as the 
late afternoon ripened the sparkle of earlier day, at 


204 The Saint of the Speedway 

last they rose abruptly till their height seemed to over¬ 
whelm the monotonous level of the muskeg. 

Now the watchful eyes became less watchful. The 
need was less. The level, sodden banks had given place 
to sharp-cut, solid granite, and the widened stream 
had slackened and given place to deep, clear water free 
of all hidden traps. A sense of ease and safety per¬ 
mitted the man's attention to wander to that which lay 
ahead and about him. 

The river bent sharply away to the right behind the 
first of the foothills and doubled its breadth. Farther 
on was a leftward sweep, and as he approached it he 
realised that he no longer had the river to himself. A' 
canoe—an Eskimo kyak—had swung round the far 
bend, on the outer circle of it, and was driving like an 
arrow against the sluggish stream. 

Just for an instant there was hesitation, and the dip 
of Cy Liskard’s paddle was less unruffled. Then, seem¬ 
ingly, the man's doubt passed and he kept straight on. 
He made no attempt to hail the stranger. He never 
even permitted his gaze to turn in his direction. But 
nothing escaped the search of his pale eyes. 

He had recognised the man in the kyak for what he 
was. He had seen him before. Something of an 
Eskimo or Indian. A sturdy, squat figure, with broad, 
fleshy shoulders and lank black hair, and eyes that 
might have been the folds of a crease in the flesh of 
his ugly face had it not been for the deep sockets in 
which they were set. 

Oh, yes. He had seen him before, and he let him 
pass him without word or greeting. 

The mouth of the Alsek River from the land side 
was a curious and interesting effect of erosion. Even 


The Man from the Hills 205 


granite, that almost invincible barrier which Nature 
sets up against the onslaught of her own fierce ele¬ 
ments, had ultimately yielded. The river on the one 
side and the storming seas on the other had beaten upon 
the granite anvil till the white flag of surrender had 
been hoisted. 

The attacking elements had met through a narrow 
gap which had helped to set the scene for the appalling 
race of tide which swept in through it. Two gaunt, 
barren headlands stood sentry on either side with less 
than three hundred yards of water dividing them. 
Outside these lay the bay with its guarding headlands 
and a multitude of rocky warriors still defending. In¬ 
side was an expanse of water that was nearly a mile 
wide. This was no less rockbound than the outer bay, 
but it was completely sheltered so that no view of the 
bay beyond could be obtained except that which was 
visible through the narrow opening. 

It was early morning. The sun had just lifted above 
the eastern hills. Nature was astir. The restless sea- 
fowl were breaking their fast upon such fare as the 
waters provided, and sunrise had brought up with it a 
freshening breeze. The night tide was rapidly running 
out and the race of water was still fierce and strong 
and threatening. 

Cy Liskard was laboriously clambering along the 
foreshore of the inner cove. He was moving up 
towards the headland guarding the southern shore of 
the river mouth. He was searching for the most prom¬ 
ising direction whence he could attack its lofty summit. 

Such was the nature of the shore that his movements 
were largely hidden. It was the thing he desired most. 
Now he was passing along in the shadow of mountain¬ 
ous boulders. Now he was full in the open, scaling a 


206 The Saint of the Speedway 

barrfer impossible otherwise to pass. But he was mak¬ 
ing progress, rapid progress onwards and upwards. He 
had swiftly realised the danger of passing the gateway 
on the open water. It would have been to court dis¬ 
covery on the instant, to say nothing of the chances of 
disaster from the race of the tide, so his boat lay 
cached behind him while he confronted the task of 
scaling the headland. 

The man was standing on the windswept crest of the 
southern guardian of the river. He was sheltering 
from observation behind a boulder, and from the whip 
of the breeze which stung with a wintry bite. The 
whole of the great bay lay there below him, calm and 
peaceful, and completely inviting. He was gazing 
down upon it, but without regard for its austere beauty. 
For that he had no interest whatever. The ravishing 
shimmer of the summer waters, the tattered magnifi¬ 
cence of the element’s aged battle-ground. These 
things were matters of complete indifference to him. 
Even his view of McLagan’s high-perched home for 
the moment seemed to make no claim. 

His searching gaze was preoccupied with the thing 
he had never looked to discover. He was gazing down 
upon the wreck of the Limpet lying upon its death¬ 
bed of rocks, which the night ebb had left bare. He 
was studying it, searching it, shape and rig and every 
detail as might some sailorman who still retains all 
his interest for a calling he has long since abandoned. 

For a long time he stood in the shelter of the boulder, 
and the fascination of the wreck held him until its spell 
was abruptly broken by a thing of more immediate con¬ 
sequence. Suddenly he became aware of a small boat 
making its way from the north shore in the direction 


The Man from the Hills 207 

of the wreck. And in a moment he understood. He 
raised his eyes to the house on the cliffs. He dropped 
them again to the beach below. Then they came again 
to the moving boat with its solitary occupant. 

Cy Liskard had made the great descent. Now he 
was standing in the shadow of the vessel lying upon 
the rocks, gazing up at the lettering of her name on her 
bluff bows. Some distance away behind him lay an 
empty dinghy hauled clear of the lapping waters. 

The man had approached the vessel in a mood that 
was sheerly exulting. Here, undoubtedly, was his goal 
at last. It was a different goal from that which he 
had expected. But that was of no consequence. He 
had watched the dinghy behind him approach the rocks. 
He had seen the man leap out of it and haul it clear of 
the water. Then he had seen him approach the derelict 
and climb on board it. There was no mistake. He had 
recognised that tall, powerful figure on the instant. It 
was impossible for him to mistake it, even though it 
had been clad differently that night at the Speedway. 
He felt that he had his man in a trap, and it was a 
trap from which he had no intention of letting him 
escape. 

There was a curious look in his pale eyes as he stared 
up at the vessel’s name. For once they had been stirred 
out of their customary expressionlessness. There was 
something almost like a smile in them. But it was 
shadowy. It was of the vaguest. And it only con¬ 
trived to transform them into something tigerish. 

At last he turned away, and as he did so a harsh 
sound broke from his lips. It might have been a short, 
hard laugh, only that not a muscle of his face had 
stirred. He moved slowly down the vessel’s length 


208 The Saint of the Speedway 

till he came to the rope ladder amidships. Then he 
paused. He thrust one hand into the pocket of his 
closely-buttoned pea-jacket and produced a heavy 
pistol. It was an automatic, and he examined its load¬ 
ing carefully. Then, with a hunching movement of 
his broad shoulders and a quick, frowning upward 
glance at the blazing sun, he seized the rope ladder 
and set foot on its bottom rung. 


CHAPTER XVI 


The Lazaret 


HE last of the daylight had only just passed. 



A It was nearing midnight, and the sky was clear 
and with every moment the night lights of the heavens 
were gaining power. Already a moving belt of North¬ 
ern Lights had made its spectre-like appearance above 
the horizon, and the rare, clear atmosphere was ideal 
for their perfect development. 

It was a wide flat in the hills something removed 
from the highway of the Alsek River, and, dotted 
about it, were the shadowy outlines of box-like human 
habitations, and the litter of a wide-flung oil camp. 
Here and there could clearly be seen the upstanding 
machinery of the drills with which the earth’s bosom 
had already been pierced. 

It was in the doorway of one of the shanties that 
the lean figure of Peter Loby was lounging. He was 
only partly dressed. He had been suddenly roused 
from his blankets, with only sufficient time to haul on 
a pair of earth-stained, moleskin trousers. His first 
keen resentment at the breaking of his night’s rest had 
passed. He had completed the reading of the brief note 
which had promptly been thrust into his hands; but his 
manner still remained short enough. 

“What in hell made you push this at me now, Sasa?” 
he protested. “We can’t start down that darn river 
till daylight, anyway. We need all the light if we’re 
to get through the muskeg bottom right. What’s keep- 


209 


210 The Saint of the Speedway 

ing McLagan down there ? Seems to me it’s dead waste 
me going down to the coast only to make back again.” 

His resentful gaze took in the sturdy figure of the 
half-breed. But his words were rather an angry ex¬ 
pression of his feelings than an invitation to the mes¬ 
senger to attempt explanation. Sasa Mannik, how¬ 
ever, took the white man literally. 

“I do as boss McLagan say,” he replied, in his halt¬ 
ing fashion. “He say, ‘I mak this brief. You give it 
boss Loby right away; then you bring him right down 
quick. Early to-morrow.’ We mak him trip right 
now ? Then you speak boss McLagan early to-morrow. 
The muskeg nothing. Not nothing. I know dis 
thing sure. You mak fix all thing now ? Yes ?” 

The half-breed’s urgency was something more than 
his orders suggested. His eyes were wider than their 
wont. Altogether the man seemed to Peter to be dis¬ 
turbed. 

“What is it, Sasa?” Peter’s manner was less irri¬ 
tated. Something he saw in the coloured man’s eyes 
left him curious. “Has anything happened that your 
boss hasn’t set in this letter?” 

The half-breed looked away behind him in the direc¬ 
tion of the faintly outlined hill behind which lay the 
river where his treasured kyak was securely cached. 
It was a native mannerism of unease. 

“I not know the thing that ‘brief’ say,” he said 
evasively, after a moment’s thought. “Oh, no. You 
tell me, then I know. I not read the thing boss Mc¬ 
Lagan mak. I know all thing I see. I know all thing 
white man do. Oh, yes. The boss say I bring you 
down quick. I mak that. It good, too, yes?” 

“What d’you mean ?” 

Peter was studying the dark face intently. 


211 


The Lazaret 

“I think it good you come—quick.” 

“Why?” 

The half-breed shrugged. Then his hands moved in 
an expressive gesture. 

“One thing. Two thing. I mak think it good you 
come quick,” he said. “Boss McLagan go by big ship. 
All the devil mans get him, sure. Plenty devil mans by 
big ship. I know. I see him. Him call boss all time 
so he go crazy, sure. Boss look at him ship. He hear 
him call. All time call. So boss mak forget all thing. 
Him mak this trip with me this night? Oh, no. Devil 
man call him quick. Him listen. It not good. Boss 
go right down by big ship, so devil man kill him all 
up. Sure. One thing.” 

The worried man raised a lean, dark finger to count 
the item. Then he raised a second finger beside the 
first. 

“Two thing,” he went on. And now the widening 
of his eyes lessened. They closed to slits from which 
all his superstitious awe had passed. “I not know 
this two thing sure,” he said thoughtfully. “I just 
think him. I mak up dis river. I meet canoe. I see 
dis man, I tell you an’ boss McLagan. Him dis man 
I see one time, two time, by the coast. Him go down 
river. I come right here. What him mak go down 
river I not guess. He bad man. Much bad. I see 
him eye look all time bad. Him eye lak devilfish. Oh, 
yes. Bad. Why him go down river? I not know. 
Him look all time for some thing. I not know. You 
mak this trip right now, quick. Then we mak him 
coast so quick this bad man not know us there. No.” 
He pointed in a low easterly direction. “Him sun by 
that place, then us with boss McLagan sure. I go lak 
hell quick.” 


212 The Saint of the Speedway 

Peter Loby wanted to laugh at the simple earnest¬ 
ness of this creature whose benighted mind was so full 
of the spectres his forbears had bred into it. He 
wanted to deride out of his superiority and enlighten¬ 
ment. But somehow he refrained from doing so. 

“You say you don’t know this man? Yet you’re 
plumb sure he’s bad? Why?” he asked sharply. 

Sasa’s gesture was full of profound contempt for 
the limitations of these “crazy white men.” 

“You shoot up fox. You shoot up wolf,” he said. 
“You not eat him. Why? Him good meat, sure. 
White man not eat him. Eskimo not eat him—only 
when he starve. So. You see good man. You say 
‘good’! You see bad man. You say ‘bad’! Why? 
All man do much thing him not know why. Why?” 
The brown finger was raised again, and it tapped the 
man’s broad low forehead with its stubby tip. “It 
here. This man bad. So bad. I say him. You come 
quick.” 

Peter nodded. 

“All right. Get right back to your boat, Sasa,” he 
said resignedly. “Get her all ready. I’ll be along 
right away. How’ll the tide serve down below ?” 

“Him good. We mak him in dead water,” Sasa 
said, with a quick, ready nod. His air of relief at 
having persuaded the white man was almost child¬ 
like. “I go mak ready right away. I mak dis trip so 
dam’ quick.” 

Ivor McLagan stared about him in the feeble light 
of his hurricane lantern. It was the lazaret of the 
Limpet. A smallish apartment between decks, with 
an entrance through a trap in the deck above, which 
was also the floor of the steward’s pantry. He had 


The Lazaret 


213 


just descended the ladder and stood gazing upon the 
iron tanks with their tightly screwed-down man¬ 
holes. 

The place contained four of these. Their purpose 
was obvious enough even to his landsman’s mind. 
They were food containers for biscuit and flour, and 
such supplies as must be kept safe from the rats with 
which the vessel had swarmed. 

But the place contained other things besides. There 
were packing cases, and chests of various sizes lit¬ 
tered about all round him. There were barrels, too, 
which he shrewdly suspected contained salted meat, 
beef and pork. Some of the chests were empty. Some 
were still nailed fast. Each of the barrels was obvi¬ 
ously as it had been originally shipped and stowed. 

He stood there for some contemplative moments. 
He had come there to search this place thoroughly as 
he intended to search the rest of the vessel. But he 
had discovered this storage of food supplies quite 
accidentally, and with no suspicion of its existence. 
It is even doubtful if he had ever heard of a ship’s 
lazaret. While examining the steward’s pantry above 
he had observed the trap in the deck, and forthwith 
had proceeded with his investigations. 

Now he was considering the best means of examina¬ 
tion. A shaft of daylight came down through the trap 
above him and he had his lantern. But the double re¬ 
source left the place ill-lit and difficult. After awhile 
he found an iron hook suspended from the deck above, 
and promptly availed himself of it. He hung his lan¬ 
tern thereon and instantly appreciated the added il¬ 
lumination so gained. He moved slowly amongst the 
litter. Right at his feet lay two chests of stout make. 
They were different from the rest scattered about. 


214 The Saint of the Speedway 

They were iron-bound and of dark, heavy wood. Their 
iron bonds had been cut and the lids thrown back, and 
they were quite empty. He bent down over these and 
examined the lids closely. There was no stencilling 
upon them to give any clue to their source. There 
was no address of any sort. 

He left them, passing on to the rest in deliberate 
and careful succession. He had made up his mind 
that nothing should remain unexamined. For, he 
argued, here were the ship’s stores, and these stores 
might give him some clue as to whence they came. 
An address. A purveyor’s business name. Anything 
and everything of such a nature might surely help 
materially in solving the mystery that so profoundly 
intrigued him. 

For a while his search was unproductive of informa¬ 
tion, although, in another direction it was not without 
interest. Each chest he had discovered had had all 
markings carefully erased with a scraper. Why? 

It was a curious discovery. It was deeply signifi¬ 
cant. To McLagan’s acute mind there was but a single 
answer. The whole thing suggested secrecy. Again 
why? After turning over the last chest he stood up 
and gazed about him, and, in the stuffy heat of the 
place, he passed a hand across his sweating forehead. 
But his gesture was in reality one of perplexity and 
had no relation to the heat. Clearly there was only 
one thing to be done. After he had explored the sealed 
tanks he must examine the contents of those cases 
that still remained full. They might contain canned 
fruit or milk. Anyway, something which would 
clearly tell him its source. 

Yes. He would first unseal those tanks, and essay 
the negotiation of those narrow manholes. Then- 


The Lazaret 


215 


He had started to cross over to the nearest tank 
when his eyes chanced upon a portion of an old pack¬ 
ing case lying in an obscure corner. There was a square 
of white upon it. In the doubtful light he could not 
be certain what the latter was. But it looked like the 
thing for which he had been so long searching. It 
looked like an address ticket. He stooped and picked 
it up. 

It was the thing he hoped. But- In his pro¬ 

found amazement he found himself muttering the ad¬ 
dress upon it aloud. 

“Capt. Julian Caspar, Sailing Ship, Imperial of 
Bristol, Perth, Western Australia.” 

At the bottom of the address card was the name of 
a firm of wine merchants in “Perth, W.A.,” and at 
the top of it, in block lettering, was the usual “With 
Care.” 

He stood gazing at it for a long time. His thought 
was travelling rapidly. In a moment he had realised 
that this piece of wood belonged to none of the open 
cases he had examined. It was probably something 
left over from some previous voyage, and, remaining 
in its corner, had so escaped the careful obliteration 
of address and markings to which the remainder of the 
stores had been submitted. 

But the name of the ship on the address startled 
him beyond words. Imperial of Bristol. It was 
the name of the ship in which Claire’s brother Jim 
had set sail for home. How came it on board the 
Limpet of Boston? 

Again came that gesture of perplexity. Then of a 
sudden his eyes lit. He moved directly under the 
lantern and read again the address on the card. This 
time he spelt the name of the ship over quite slowly 



216 The Saint of the Speedway 

and aloud. Then he began another spelling and it 
was the name of the wreck itself. 

“L-I-M-P-E-T ” he muttered. Then after a pause : 
“I-M-P-E. Yes. Then ther’s the L. sure. Boston. 
Bristol. Gee! Looks like it’s-” 

He broke off with a startled upward glance in the 
direction of the hatch above. Just for an instant he 
remained listening acutely. Then he dropped the wood 
from his hands and it fell with a clatter on the deck 
at his feet. He reached up and snatched the lantern 
from the hook and extinguished it. There was a 
sound. It was the faint stealing sound as of some one 
cautiously approaching along the deck above him. 

Who could it be? Loby? Sasa? No. He had no 
expectation of their return till afternoon. Claire? 
He remembered Claire’s unexpected visit. She was 
not likely to repeat it. It would not be Claire. No. 
Who then? He remembered the ghostly shadow that 
had terrified Claire and the half-breed. And, for the 
first time in his life, he experienced that thrill of the 
nerves which the uncanny rarely fails to inspire even 
in the hardiest. 

Then came the full and unpleasant realisation of his 
position. One glance round him in the twilight warned 
him of his disadvantage. Here, in the lazaret, he was 
like a rat in a trap. He had no idea of who it could 
be above. But that which his senses had told him left 
him with a feeling of detestation for such a position. 
He turned promptly to the iron ladder. 

You’re covered, McLagan. You’re covered sure 
as death. The moment you show your darn head 
above that hole I’ll blow it plumb to small meat.” 

McLagan drew back. There was no thrill of the 
nerves in him now. It was not the uncanny that held 



The Lazaret 


217 


him. He knew that voice on the instant. It was the 
voice of Cy Liskard. And he understood that the 
man had a score to settle with him, and had come to 
settle it. 

His position was desperate. He was armed. His 
automatic was fully loaded. But it was useless. Quite 
useless. For the man above had not shown himself 
in the aperture of the trap. 

The man from the hills was standing in the cabin 
alleyway with his back to the main deck. He was 
facing the door of the steward’s pantry with a clear 
view of the open trap of the lazaret. But he, himself, 
was sufficiently clear of it to stand in no risk of gun¬ 
fire on the part of the man he had trapped there. His 
gun was ready in his hand. No man could hope to 
ascend the ladder of the lazaret and get the first shot 
in. He knew that. And, for the moment, was quite 
content. Now he was talking, and a curious light 
had replaced the deadness usually looking out of his 
eyes. 

“I didn’t guess to find you here, McLagan,” he 
said. “I didn’t think to find this wreck lying around. 
But I’ve come many miles to find you, and pay the 
thing I owe you. I humped it into Beacon to buy a 
‘time.’ I was out to buy it in a fashion you oil folks 
don’t guess about. I was there to pay for it in dollars 
an’ dollars, and all sorts of gold you never dreamt 
about; I wanted that dame, and you jumped in and 
smashed my face. It ain’t that smash I’m worrying 
about—though I owe you for that. But you cost me 
that dame an’ darn near a hangin’. That’s what I’m 
here to pay you for. An’ pay you good. I’m goin’ 
to kill you right here. Savvy ? An’ I guess it’s a good 


218 The Saint of the Speedway 

place to get away with it right. They’ll find you lying 
around dead, an’ it’ll take all the United States lawyers 
to guess who did it. I don’t belong this location. I 
ain’t within miles of it. Ther’s no one who counts 
knows I’m around. I guess ther’ ain’t a soul to dis¬ 
turb us. You see, your folks are up the river, an’ 
you—I saw you come along over to this darn wreck. 
Do you feel like showing yourself, or will I seal up 
this hatch an’ fire the ship ?” 

The man spoke very deliberately. He spoke without 
passion. His manner was quietly confident and sat¬ 
isfied. 

For a moment he contemplated the raised trap as 
though measuring his chances of carrying out his final 
threat. Not for a moment did he imagine his victim 
would be unarmed. He remembered the Speedway. 
McLagan had been armed then. He had reason enough 
to remember something of the calibre of the weapon 
the man had thrust at him. 

His eyes turned again to the aperture in the deck. 
Did he know the construction of that narrow lazaret 
below ? It seemed doubtful. And yet it was impossible 
to tell. 

After awhile his voice came again harshly taunting. 

“You ain’t makin’ a lot of fuss, McLagan,” he cried. 
“But then you ain’t got a crowd around. You’re on 
your own, and don’t feel sure about things. You ken 
come right up if you fancy, an’ I’ll give it you fair. 

I won’t send you glorywards till your face has had a 
peek around at the good daylight you’re goin’ to lose 
quick. If you ain’t game for that I’ll sure have to 
batten down, an’ start that fire. This vessel’s loaded 
down with an elegant cargo of good spruce an’ stuff. 
It’ll burn so ther’ ain’t a living soul could get near 


The Lazaret 219 

it. Then her bulkheads are steel, I guess. Gee! What 
a dandy oven that lazaret’ll make.” 

Still no sound came up from below. Still the en¬ 
gineer gave no sign. And yet he must surely have 
realised the desperateness of his case. 

Cy Liskard shifted his position. He was listening 
acutely. For all his taunting he was left guessing 
while his intended victim remained soundless. He 
was thinking very hard. He was puzzled. Suddenly 
he raised his gun and looked over its sight. And on 
the instant a shot rang out. But it came from the 
lazaret and not from his weapon. A bullet struck the 
alleyway wall with a spat. It ricochetted off the steel 
and tore screaming past the man’s head. Instantly 
Cy’s gun replied and a bullet crashed through one of 
the iron tanks below with a boom like a drum beat. 

He waited for a return fire sheltered from the pan¬ 
try doorway. But none was forthcoming. Then real¬ 
isation came to him. There was no means of closing 
that trap while the man below still retained a single 
shot in his gun. At all costs he must draw his fire. 

So he drew nearer. He stood in view of the trap. 
It was only while he fired a second shot. Then he 
leapt aside under cover as McLagan’s answering shot 
rang out. It grazed his passing shoulder with a hot 
slither, and the blood surged to his brain. He moved 
a step forward and fired again into the depths. And 
again McLagan replied. The shot only missed Lis¬ 
kard by inches and the man uttered a sound like a 
laugh. It was the engineer’s third shot, and he was 
more than satisfied. A few more. Only a few more. 

He stood ready. He darted in and fired again 
through the trap. Again came McLagan’s retort which 
took him in the cloth arm of the thick pea-jacket cov- 


220 The Saint of the Speedway 

ering his body. He sprang clear. And suddenly a 
furious oath broke chokingly from his almost stifled 
throat. An arm had caught him from behind encir¬ 
cling his bull-like neck. There was a brief struggle 
while he tried to turn his weapon on the unexpected 
assailant. Then he crashed to the deck undermost, 
with his gun-arm held and twisted till his hand re¬ 
leased the weapon. 

Cy Liskard was standing just clear of the break in 
the vessel's poop. He was beside the main hatch, dis¬ 
armed, defeated, but without bonds to hold him pris¬ 
oner. Immediately behind him stood Sasa Mannik 
who had sworn never to set foot on the wreck again. 
And beside him was Peter Loby, lean, grinning, with 
a gun in his hand ready for immediate action. At the 
head of the alleyway stood Ivor McLagan still han¬ 
dling his automatic. 

He was gazing at the gold man speculatively. Some¬ 
how there was far less resentment than repulsion in his 
feeling for this man from the hills, who, but for the 
timely arrival of Peter and his servant, would in all 
probability have achieved his purpose of cold-blooded 
murder. He was a dour, hard-looking creature whose 
queer eyes fascinated him. And for the moment he 
was wondering at the thing lying back of them. 

“Well, what’re you goin’ to do?” 

Liskard had stood the victor's scrutiny in silence as 
long as he could. 

McLagan laughed derisively at the snarling chal¬ 
lenge. 

“Do? There’s surely a lot of things I could do,” he 
said. “I could have you pitched into that store room, 
or lazaret, as I heard you call it, and close it up and 


The Lazaret 


221 


fire the ship. Her steel bulkheads would make it a 
dandy oven. Then ther’s good yards to this craft, for 
all her canvas is mostly blown off them, and plenty of 
rope. Then I’ve still got haf a clip of cartridges in my 
gun and several more in my pockets. I could easy 
pass you on glory wards if I fancied that way. But I 
don’t.” 

A sound came from the half-breed behind the pris¬ 
oner. It was a native expression of complete disgust. 
Peter only grinned more broadly. 

“Ten minutes ago I was yearning to kill as badly 
as you,” McLagan went on calmly. “So maybe we’re 
fifty-fifty on that. Now I’m not. While I guess you’re 
still a hundred per cent that way. I’m going to turn 
you free to carry on your pretty work. I don’t feel 
like spoiling it by any premature action. You see, 
you’ll surely hang one day, and I’d rather it was done 
in the regular fashion of the law. You want my 
blood, and you haven’t left me guessing why. If you 
were a man, and not a brute, I’d say act the sportsman 
and take a chance with me. I’d face you just any old 
way at any old time. But you prefer the advantage to 
be with you all the time. That’s why I’m dead sure 
you’ll hang. Now you can get out the way-” 

He broke off. A great spread of sunlight had 
flashed down on to the deck. Cy Liskard was no 
longer heeding him. With the sunshine a queer look 
had leapt into his usually expressionless eyes which 
were gazing down the deck. Their stare was horri¬ 
fied. And something like terror had replaced their 
deadness. He was staring at a moving shadow. The 
shadow that had once sent Sasa headlong over the ves¬ 
sel’s side and again had driven Claire Carver into 
panic. 


222 The Saint of the Speedway 

The eyes of both Sasa and Peter Loby were held by 
it, too. Only McLagan seemed undisturbed by that 
shadowy presence. He was watching the prisoner, 
and his gun was still ready. 

“You see it, Liskard?” McLagan said, with a de¬ 
risive laugh. “We’ve all seen it. And you wanted to 
add another haunting to the collection. It’s a big man, 
eh? As big as I am. Say, we’d have made a real 
dandy pair of spooks, one on the deck and one in the 
lazaret—if you hadn’t burned up the whole darn shoot¬ 
ing match. I wonder who murdered that poor devil 
like you’d have murdered me. We’ll never-” 

A fierce oath broke from the prisoner. It was more 
a cry of real terror than any expression of fury against 
the man taunting him. The next moment he was 
speeding down the deck, running for the companion- 
ladder, while Peter’s gun was levelled at him. 

“Quit it, Peter!” 

McLagan’s order came on the instant and the man 
lowered his weapon. 

“Let him go. I want him to go.” Then he turned 
to the half-breed. “Over the side with you, boy. You 
don’t like spooks, but you can be trusted with men. 
You’ve your gun. See to it that dam murdering swine 
don’t touch our boats. But don’t dare to kill him up.” 

McLagan and Peter were leaning over the vessel’s 
rail. Down at the steadily rising water’s edge the half- 
breed was standing guard on the boats lying there. In 
the direction of the southern headland Cy Liskard was 
beating a hasty retreat over the rocks. 

“That pretty feller’s got it in for me, Peter, plumb 
up to the hilt of his longest and sharpest knife. I guess 
he’s a born murderer. And to me his eyes look that 



The Lazaret 


223 


way. He insulted a woman up at the Speedway, and 
I beat him on the face and made a bit of a mess of 
him. Then the Aurora boys jumped in on him, and 
I can guess the thing that happened. It was hard 
letting him make a get-away. But I just couldn’t do 
a thing else. Besides, I’ve got a notion it’s best. Say, 
boy, I owe you and Sasa more than I’m likely to be 
able to pay in a lifetime. How’d you manage to get 
around on time?” 

McLagan’s thanks were the deeper for the calm 
fashion in which they were expressed. Peter nodded 
and grinned. 

“I’m glad we got around,” he said simply. “I cursed 
Sasa for hauling me from my blankets last night, but 
I don’t now. He’s queer, that boy. An’, gee, the pace 
he drove us down that creek at! You know he had a 
notion things were bad. First it was the darn spook 
on this ship which worried him. Then he passed a 
feller in a canoe, and reckoned he was bad. It was 
that guy, and I’d say he was right. He said he was 
the feller he’d seen crawling around the rocks at the 
mouth of the Lias he told us about once. Yes. He’s 
queer. He reckoned that feller was going down that 
creek for mischief, and the mischief was against you. 
He didn’t know. He just guessed.” 

<f Well, he guessed right, and”—McLagan laughed 
—“I’ll have to raise his wages. He’s a good boy. 
Say-” 

He broke off thoughtfully and Peter waited. After 
a moment he turned from the rail. 

“I got to get a stout turnscrew, and some tools out 
of the carpenter’s shop place.” 

“What for?” 

They were moving along the deck. 



224 The Saint of the Speedway 

“Why, I got a fool notion I’d like to climb over the 
stern of this kettle and prise the letters of her name 
some. It’s a notion.” 

“Why?” 

McLagan shrugged. 

“Just bear a hand, an’ after that I’ve got to go right 
into Beacon.” 

“But what about our trip ?” 

Peter was no longer grinning. He was feeling a 
little impatient with this chief who could abandon their 
all important work for something he felt had no right 
to concern him at all. 

“Don’t worry a thing, Peter,” McLagan said, recog¬ 
nising the change in the other’s manner. “I won’t let 
you down, boy. It’s not my way. But I’m on a trail 
that looks kind of hot to me, and it’s pretty near to 
the things that really matter in a man’s life. Get me, 
boy? No. You don’t. But it don’t matter. I don’t 
ever break my word to a friend. I’m not going to let 
you down a thing. Our trip goes through—but later.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


Links in a Chain 

HE full Council of the Aurora Clan was assem- 



A bled. The crude accommodation was wholly in¬ 
adequate. And many of the members were forced to 
stand through lack of sitting room amidst the debris 
of the old steam-heat cellar of the ruins of the lakeside 
dwelling. But then it was the full Council, and not 
the Supreme Executive. And its members numbered 
full twenty. 

It was sufficiently grotesque for all the significance 
lying behind the gathering of these queer figures in 
their burlesque robes of white. They represented a 
deadly force in the life of this wide-flung northern 
country. It was the inevitable reply of those who saw 
and appreciated the problems and needs of their own 
existence and were prepared to deal with them with¬ 
out reference to political visions and principles. It 
was reaction to pristine instinct. 

Yes, it was reaction. The fact of it being a council 
had no relation to democratic method. The Aurora 
Clan was ruled over by one individual who was called 
the “Chief Light of the Aurora. ,, The Chief Light 
was the brain and the driving force. He was the 
heart, the soul, and head of the organisation. His 
rule was despotic. The councillors were his supporters, 
and the executors of his absolute will. They were 
possibly, even, advisers, in that they were listened to 


225 


226 The Saint of the Speedway 

in council. But, bound under oath, they obeyed the 
ruling of the Chief Light without question, and under 
ruthless penalty. 

The Aurora Clan was an expression of passionate 
exasperation. It was an expression of men who saw 
no hope in the far off councils of self-interested men, 
who spend their lives in talk. They wanted their own 
corner of the earth made safe for decent democracy, 
and were prepared to purge it without regard to the 
rest of the world’s opinions. Laws might be enacted 
in those far off councils. They would obey them if 
they proved adequate in making decent life possible. 
If they proved otherwise, in view of the needs of their 
community, they would be simply set aside and other 
provision would be made. 

To achieve its purpose the Aurora Clan viewed the 
situation with wide-open eyes. It saw things as they 
were, and refused to consider them through any 
medium that presented the picture in any different 
light. It was gazing on the rawest human nature, for 
all it was tricked out in the fashions of the twentieth 
century. It was the same human nature that had 
fought the old-time battle in the darkest ages, un¬ 
changed in the smallest degree. So the Clan had 
adopted the method which has always been the ulti¬ 
mate control when humanity got out of hand. It was 
the method of earliest man. And it will be the method 
of the last. It was the appeal of Fear. In the opinion 
of the controlling mind of the Aurora Clan there was 
no short cut to any Utopia, or Millennium, or things of 
that sort. There was even no such condition to arrive 
at. Life was Self. Simply Self, even if, at times, 
thinly disguised. And Self could only be sufficiently 
impressed to keep it within the bounds of reasonable 


Links in a Chain 


227 


decency by the methods of control which had come 
down throughout the ages. So the ugly banner of 
Terror had been raised. Awe, Superstition, Terror. 

To the humorous mind the grotesqueness of the 
gathering must have been without question. Each pair 
of eyes gazing through rudely cut eye-holes in those 
conical hoods, if their humour were sufficient, must 
inevitably have smiled at the sight of the other nine¬ 
teen ghostly figures squatting or standing about the 
place with pipes and cigars protruding through mouth- 
holes in the cloth of their hoods. In this respect these 
men-ghosts were not sacrificing their comfort for any 
undue regard for the impression they desired to 
create. They were there for business. The cellar 
was without comfort. They might be there for hours. 
Well, tobacco was no outrage of their principles. 

The place reeked with every grade of tobacco smoke. 
Rank cigars and still ranker pipes had overridden the 
musty dankness of the atmosphere. Decay in any 
form was sufficiently abhorrent to the virile youth of 
this gathering. So each did his best to mask it under 
the fog of smoke which brought comfort to their 
souls. 

The sitting had been a long one. All sorts of re¬ 
ports from individual councillors had been listened to, 
voted upon, and upon which the Chief Light, leaning 
against the central rusted furnace, had given his final 
decision. There was no secretary to take down any 
minutes of the meeting. No writing of any sort was 
permitted. All the business of the Council was done 
verbally. Sentence was passed on any delinquent re¬ 
ported by the Chief Light, and the work of its execu¬ 
tion deputed by word of mouth. None but the Chief 
Light knew upon whom such tasks devolved. Maybe 


228 The Saint of the Speedway 

there was recognition in the voices as each councillor 
spoke, but that was all. Each member of the Council 
was known by a numeral which was inscribed on the 
white front of his gown, and, so long as he might 
serve on the Council, that would be the only form of 
identification permitted. 

Towards the end of the session a stoutish councillor, 
with “No. 3” blazoned on the bosom of his cloak, 
bestirred himself. He made a sign which conveyed 
his claim to attention. It was given without question. 
The tall form of the Chief Light was instantly turned 
in his direction. 

“ ‘No. 3’ has a report for the Council,” he said, in 
that curious hollow tone which his masking hood gave 
to his voice. “We’ll take his report next.” 

He paused for an instant while the eyes behind his 
mask surveyed his supporters. Then he went on in 
the quiet business-like fashion which marked his con¬ 
duct of affairs at all times. 

“There is need for explanation,” he said. “ ‘Num¬ 
ber Three’ was delegated to certain work at a meeting 
of the Supreme Executive which met in emergency 
awhile back. Many of this Council were not present 
at the time. You need to get it that his work was of 
more than usual importance to the general community. 
Maybe you’ll all likely remember there was a tough guy 
called Cy Liskard who blew into the Speedway on the 
night of Max’s celebration, and raised particular sort 
of hell there. ‘Number Three’s’ report concerns this 
man. This man Cy Liskard is reputed to have made 
a big strike of gold way back on the Lias River. 
And, anyway, he’s sold big dust at the bank and holds 
a credit there. It’s reckoned he’s hugging this strike 
to his bosom and we’ve made it our special business 


Links in a Chain 229 

to see, if it’s right, that the field outside his claim is 
made available to the folks of our city.” 

There was a slight but definite movement amongst 
the Chief Light’s audience. Those who were sitting 
turned in the direction of ‘Number Three.’ Those 
who were standing gazed round on the sturdy figure 
expectantly. 

“We’ll take Number Three’s report.” 

The Chief Light leant back against his furnace sup¬ 
port prepared to lisfen with the rest. 

“Number Three” plunged at once into his story. He 
began formally, but quickly drifted into the vernacular 
common to them all. 

“By the will of the Supreme Executive I set out to 
investigate under the orders received. Six Clansmen 
accompanied me. It was a darn big trip, an’ we were 
chasing a wily guy an’ a pretty bright trailman. I 
was lucky in having ‘Number Twenty-Six’ with me, 
who’s wise to the country of the Lias River. Well, 
I don’t guess to worry you folks with the details of 
that trip. We made it all right, all right. t We tracked 
our man right up to his home in the hills. He was 
there, an’ we doped him and his dogs quiet so we could 
work easy. And a pretty fancy hiding hole he’s got. 
It lies well nigh back on the Canadian Border.” 

“Number Three” paused. And a shuffling of feet 
and the clearing of throats indicated the deepening in¬ 
terest of his audience. 

“Say, it’s queer,” the sturdy figure went on reflec¬ 
tively. “He’s got a claim there all right. He’s got a 
swell sluice on a creek, and a big dump of stuff piled 
around it. He’s got a shanty on the hillside, and cor¬ 
rals for his ponies. He’s got a bunch of trail dogs 
to carry him anywhere on a winter trail. Then he’s 


230 The Saint of the Speedway 

got a swell canoe, and all the gear of the goldman. 
But—” He broke off and, as he gazed round on his 
audience, it was almost as if he were smiling behind 
his mask. “—we couldn’t see he’d washed an ounce 
of dust since ever he set up his sluice. I want to tell 
you right here, folks, if there’s a thing I’m a’mighty 
wise to in this darn country it’s washing the yellow 
stuff I’ve been chasing twenty years. There’s no guy 
on the Lias River can put me wise to any notion I 
haven’t got. Well, I tell you right now that boy hasn’t 
washed out any gold on that claim ever since it was 
staked. He’s set it all out. It ’ud look good to a bum 
tenderfoot. Maybe, even, some of you boys ’ud fall 
for his show down. But he can’t bluff me a thing. 
That claim, and all his fancy gear, is a mighty big 
bluff. That’s all. He hain’t worked fi’ cents of gold 
—there. 

“But he’s passed a big pouch of dust into the bank. 
We’re wise to that. Where does he work that stuff?” 
The man paused again. Then a sound came from be¬ 
hind his mask. It was a funereal sort of laugh. “I 
ain’t wise. But I went through with the job as it was 
ordered. This guy has been seen chasing around the 
coast at the mouth of his river. We came right down 
the length of that river with our eyes wide open for 
any blamed sign.” He shook his cowled head. “He’s 
got no workings anywhere along that river. But we 
found something. Oh, yes. We surely did. It’s a 
tough coast, and hard to chase up right. There’s a 
thousand holes an’ corners for a cache an’ that sort 
of truck. Anyway we located a sort of creek that was 
hidden all up. It was rocks and overgrowth so we 
mostly had a hell of a time making our way in. But 
we got through. And, cached right away up it, cached 


Links in a Chain 


231 


so as only chance could locate it, we hit on a swell 
motor boat fit to make a sea trip in tough weather. 
Yes, we located that, and located something else. She 
was in elegant shape, and we searched her clear 
through even to her gasoline tanks. And in one of 
her lockers we found two bags, canvas bags such as 
I knew as soon as I set eyes on ’em. They were 
empty. I turned ’em inside out. There was the re¬ 
mains of dust in ’em caught up in the seams, an’ I 
made a collection of it. Sir,” he went on, addressing 
himself directly to the tall figure of the Chief Light, 
“that’s my report, and I wait for instructions. Ther’s 
a few bits o’ details I ain’t spoken on that I ken hand 
you when you got time to go into them. Maybe they 
signify some. I don’t rightly know. Meanwhile, 
that’s the report I got to hand to this Council.” 

The Chief Light nodded. 

“Good,” he said. “I’ll take those details later. 
Meanwhile, you don’t figger this Cy Liskard is on a 
strike on his claim?” 

Number Three shook his head promptly. 

“I don’t say all that, Chief,” he said quickly. “The 
thing I say is the claim he’s got staked around his 
home place is sheer bluff. Maybe he’s blinding us. 
Maybe his claim lies elsewhere. That being so it’ll 
likely take months locating it.” 

At a sign from the Chief Light, full discussion on 
the report of Number Three broke out. It was dealt 
with exhaustively. Then the meeting passed on to 
such other business as claimed it. 

Alan Goodchurch was typical of officialdom, but 
possessing a leavening of real human interest in the 
life of which he was in official control. In Beacon 


232 The Saint of the Speedway 

Glory his prestige stood reasonably high, but simply 
because of that leavening. In his official capacity as 
Commissioner of the district and chief collector of 
revenues for the government he represented, there 
was no particular goodwill displayed towards him. 
But then Beacon Glory had no sort of use whatsoever 
for an authority that had its origin so far away that 
it required something in the nature of an astronomical 
telescope to discover its existence. As a man it was 
wholly different. He was a cheery creature outside 
his office, alive with kindly sympathy for the difficul¬ 
ties and troubles besetting his fellow-townsmen and 
really eager for the steady progress and prosperity of 
the heterogeneous collection of life it was his lot to 
endeavour to shepherd in its duty towards its Gov¬ 
ernment. 

He was a youngish man for his post. But then it 
was well enough recognised that in this especial lo¬ 
cality his was a youngish man's work. Beacon Glory 
needed a strong official hand and a strong official 
mind, and Goodchurch possessed these things arrayed 
in a tall muscular frame and a large, lean face with 
pronouncedly square jaws. 

Ivor McLagan was on reasonably intimate terms 
with Goodchurch. It was his business to be so, for 
whatever the general attitude of the men of Beacon 
Glory towards their Commissioner, the oil man’s busi¬ 
ness demanded official goodwill. 

It was a moment in Goodchurch’s official life when 
the human element in him was uppermost. He sat 
turned away from his desk, lounging in his swivel 
chair, talking to the engineer and smoking a cigar, the 
latter a most unusual proceeding in his working hours. 
McLagan was overflowing a smaller bare wood chair 


Links in a Chain 233 

opposite him, and he, too, was smoking one of the 
Commissioner’s best cigars. 

The strong face of Goodchurch was smiling pleas¬ 
antly, and his keen grey eyes had lost their usual cold 
stare which had taken him years to cultivate. He 
shook his head. 

“There’s no such darn vessel registered at Boston,” 
he said. “And there’s no owner yearning to claim 
anything with a name like the Limpet. That doesn’t 
leave me guessing. There’s such a thing as insurance. 
In a while, maybe, we’ll be getting word from some 
underwriting house. Then the fur’ll fly, and some 
one’ll be squealing in the Courts. Anyway, the posi¬ 
tion’s clear. Boston’s never heard of the Limpet 
and isn’t yearning to.” 

McLagan removed his cigar and flicked the ash into 
an immaculate cuspidor. His narrow eyes surveyed 
the neat apartment which gave some indication of the 
man who presided there. It was Goodchurch’s pri¬ 
vate room in the best commercial block in Beacon 
which was more than half given up to his staff. He 
knew well enough the range of this man’s work. It 
was from the highest to the lowest in the realms of 
the city’s discipline. And for all the man’s capacity, 
McLagan felt like smiling at the thought of the net 
result of his labours. 

However, his concern at the moment lay in other 
directions. This was his last visit to Beacon before 
setting out on a prolonged exploration into the hills, 
and he desired the Commissioner’s valuable aid in a 
direction in which he knew he could rely on it. 

He nodded. 

“That’s pretty clear,” he said. “What next?” 

Goodchurch shook his head. 


234 The Saint of the Speedway 

“There don't seem to be much to be done—next,” 
he said thoughtfully. “After all, what is it? A wind¬ 
jammer blows in on to the rocks of this abominable 
coast. You reckon she’s mostly a cargo of lumber 
aboard. Well, lumber’s no sort of use on this coast.” 
He smiled. “Gold’s the only thing, or oil, that’s going 
to set our folks whooping. There don’t seem to be 
a soul yearning to claim that craft. Even the folks 
who quit her.” He shook his head again. “No. 
There’s not a thing worth doing but what I’ve done. 
My report’s gone in. That’s usual. I guess I can 
send a couple of boys down to view things, but if we 
know anything of the seas beating on this coast line, 
the storms that drove her on the rocks are liable to 
hammer her to matchwood in a month or so. And 
then there’ll be nothing—more.” 

McLagan agreed. 

“It seems that way,” he said, with an assumption 
of indifference. “Yet I’ve a sublimely foolish notion 
there’s something queer behind that wreck. And the 
notion’s got hold of me good.” 

“Queer, eh?” Goodchurch’s eyes narrowed, and he 
surveyed the cigar in his fingers reflectively. Then 
he chuckled quietly. “Yes,” he went on. “Insurance. 
And that’s not in my work—once my report is sent 
in to my chiefs.” 

McLagan bestirred himself. He realised the official 
horizon of this otherwise excellent man. He stood 
up. 

“I told you I’d got a notion,” he said simply. “Well, 
I got more. And I’m wondering if you’ll help me 
out on it. I’ve an idea, more than an idea—a con¬ 
viction, in fact, that the name of that bunch of wreck¬ 
age has been changed. It was changed on purpose. 


Links in a Chain 


235 


Real, desperate purpose. If we can locate the owners 
and anyone else interested in the Imperial of Bristol, 
we shall get back of a darn ugly story that’s liable 
to get your department jumping on a red-hot trail. 
That’s why I came along now. It’s to give you that 
before I go right up into the country on a survey 
that’s going to keep me busy till the summer’s nearly 
through. I daresay by the time I get back the storm¬ 
ing will have left nothing of that wreck on the rocks. 
It don’t matter. Her story don’t lie in her now. It 
lies in the owners and crew who are the folks that 
need finding. You broadcasted before for the other 
name. Will you do it for this? Will you send it to 
the newspapers? And pass it right on to any old 
region that can pick it up? I’d be glad, an’—grate¬ 
ful.” 

Goodchurch laughed. He realised the oil man’s 
earnestness, but it left him quite unaffected. 

“Sure, I will, Mac,” he said cordially. “How did 
you locate the change of name ? What’s the story you 
reckon to discover?” 

The other shrugged his heavy shoulders as he flung 
his cigar stump into the cuspidor. 

“It’s clear enough—with the suspicion of it in your 
mind. I got a close look at the painted names on the 
boats, and life belts, and anything that had the ship’s 
name on it. Mostly the change has been made good. 
But, like all things of that nature, it was a long job 
and the folks doing it maybe got weary of it. In 
two cases, at least, I recognised the old name had been 
painted or scraped out—some of the letters, and others 
substituted. I’m sure, dead sure.” 

“And the story?” 

McLagan shook his head and smiled. 


236 The Saint of the Speedway 

“Murder, I’d guess—amongst other things,” he said 
simply. 

“Murder?” 

Goodchurch sat up. 

“Sure. And I’m looking to find who did it and 
why.” 

Goodchurch whistled. 

“That sort of show gets a man.” 

“Ye-es.” 

“Anything else?” 

“If I told you haf the things in my head you’d 
guess I was bug.” 

Goodchurch laughed. 

“I’d need more than that to reckon Ivor McLagan 
that way.” He stood up. “Well, I’ll surely do as you 
ask, right away. And I guess I’ll take a trip out to 
view that wreck myself—instead of sending any of 
the boys.” 

McLagan held out a hand which the official gripped 
with cordiality. 

“Why, do,” he said. “And make use of my shanty 
all you please. My boy’ll be along there if I’m away, 
and he’ll fix you right. I’ll leave word. An’, say,” 
he added with a shrewd smile as he moved towards 
the door, “if you’re not looking for a scare, don’t get 
aboard of that craft when the sun’s shining.” 

“What ? Say-” 

But McLagan shook his head. “I’m not going to 
hand you a thing else,” he said laughingly. “I’m not 
yearning for you to get beyond the limits of your 
belief in my sanity. Maybe I won’t see you again till 
I get through with my trip. So long.” 


Links in a Chain 


237 


McLagan hurried down the sidewalk in the direc¬ 
tion of the Speedway. He was thinking with a con¬ 
centration that left him oblivious to his surroundings 
and with only his objective clear in his mind. Once 
he smiled to himself as the thought of Alan Good- 
church’s remark about his sanity flashed intrusively 
upon his preoccupation. He felt sure that it was as 
well for his purpose that he had added nothing of the 
thing absorbing him now to that which he had im¬ 
parted to the Commissioner. No. The thing he had 
in his mind must remain there untold until he had 
completed the chain of circumstances he saw linking 
themselves together. Either he was stark, staring, 
raving mad, or- 

He bumped into Victor Bums just outside the 
banker’s office, and the collision brought him back to 
his surroundings and the realisation of his friend’s 
laughing protest. 

“Say, you great unmitigated boob, with your two 
yards of meat, ain’t there room for an ounce or two 
like me on the same earth?” 

McLagan laughed. 

“Ounce or two? Say—when two folks collide on 
the sidewalk it mostly seems to me occasion for dis¬ 
cussion. Who is it has right of way? The feller 
using the sidewalk for its original purpose, or the 
feller standing around with a Agger calculated to set 
an oil man yearning? I’ve got five minutes for a yarn 
in your office.” 

Burns smiled up into the twinkling eyes. 

“Come right in,” he said. “I’ve mostly got five 
minutes any time of day for the man who reckons to 
flood Beacon out with oil.” 


238 The Saint of the Speedway 

They passed into the bank and to the private office. 
McLagan perched his great bulk on the desk and 
grinned down on his still standing friend. 

“Just sit around, Victor/’ he said, while the other 
waited for the purpose lying behind this sudden and 
unexpected visit. “I want you to talk, to yarn in your 
own sweet way about the darn stuff you’re here to 
deal in. I want you to tell me all you know about 
the stuff. Its grades. Its colours. And the localities 
where the colours are found, or have been found. I 
want you to lay bare your golden soul to me the same 
as from time to time I’ve told you the juicy details 
of the stuff I spend my life chasing. Can you do it 
in ten minutes?” 

“Not in ten weeks.” 

“That’s tough. I’ve got just a haf hour.” 

“It was ten minutes last and five before,” laughed 
the intrigued banker. 

“Well, let’s get down to bed rock. I can set you 
haf-a-dozen questions, and we’ll fix it that way.” 

“Have you made a ‘strike’?” 

McLagan laughed. 

“No, siree! But I'm going to set the questions to 
this examination.” 

“I may sit.” 

The banker’s eyes were shining with the humour 
of the thing. But he was wondering, too. He had 
never known McLagan to have more than a passing 
interest in the trade he dealt in. And somehow, he 
now seemed to be in deadly earnest for all his light¬ 
ness. 

“Sure you may,” the oil man said. “And smoke, 
too, if you feel that way. It’s good to smoke if you 
need to think.” 


Links in a Chain 


239 


Victor took his place at the desk on which McLagan 
was sitting and pushed a box of cigars at his guest. 
He sat back in his chair while the other lit up and 
regarded him thoughtfully. 

“Well?” he demanded, with his hands clasped across 
his rotund body. “Get busy with those questions.” 

“There’s more than one colour to gold?” 

“Yes. Quite a number of shades in raw gold.” 

“Governed by the locality in which it’s found?” 

“Surely. The formations. Reef gold. Alluvial. 
The copperous qualities of quartz. The climated con¬ 
ditions of the various latitudes in which it is found. 
A whole heap of influences affect the shades of 
colour.” 

McLagan nodded. 

“Now Alaskan gold?” 

“It varies the same as the rest.” 

“Could you tell Alaskan gold from tropical gold?” 

“It depends on circumstances. Generally, yes. I’ve 
got samples here,” the banker went on quickly, pull¬ 
ing out a drawer beside him. 

He lifted out a leather case and flung it open. It 
held a number of small glass bottles each containing 
a sample of yellow dust. Each bottle was carefully 
labelled. 

“We keep these as a matter of interest. They’re 
small samples of each different strike made in the 
neighbourhood with which we trade. You see? Ex¬ 
amine them. Compare them. There’s many differ 
shades.” 

He sat back again while the oil man picked up each 
bottle in turn and compared them one with the other, 
and the banker found it profoundly interesting to 
note the intensity of scrutiny to which the man whose 


240 The Saint of the Speedway 

interests had nothing to do with gold examined them. 

“Do you realise the varying shades?” 

McLagan was holding one bottle, searching its con¬ 
tents closely. 

“This is pale sort of stuff,” he said. 

The banker looked at the label. 

“Reef gold from the Ubishi Hills. It was a poor 
strike and petered out. Crystal quartz. And too hard 
to work for the ordinary gold man. It needed big 
capital.” 

McLagan nodded. 

“Hardly yellow at all,” he said. “Now this,” he 
went on, holding up another bottle. “This has a richer 
colour.” 

“Sure. But look where it’s from. The red cop- 
perous gravel of Eighty Mile Creek. I’d say, next to 
some of the big Australian finds, that’s one of the 
handsomest colours known. Here’s another,” he went 
on, thrusting another bottle into his visitor’s hand. 
“It’s nigh as red. It’s like as two peas with the 
African stuff, and some of the old Californian colour. 
It might even be from West Australia. But it isn’t. 
No, it’s Alaskan. And it’s creek gold.” 

“Where from?” 

“I can’t rightly say—yet. Maybe we’ll learn in 
good time. We generally do. You see, it’s a sample 
of the stuff brought in by a boy who’s working along 
the Lias River territory. That boy I told you of 
awhile back. The feller you beat over the head at the 
Speedway the night of its festival. Pretty stuff.” 

McLagan was turning the bottle in his hand. He 
rolled its contents over and over, intently examining 
its colour and the texture of its grains. 

“It’s cleaner than most,” he said presently. “Looks 


Links in a Chain 


241 


like it was washed by a pretty expert hand. It’s like 
none of the others. Not even the Eighty Mile stuff. 
Eighty Mile—that’s on the Canadian side.” 

“Yes.” Burns eased himself in his chair. “No. 
It’s not like any of the other. It looks like tropical 
stuff, and if I didn’t know better, I’d surely say it 
was.” 

McLagan set the bottle down and sat gazing at it. 

“What is there there? An ounce?” he asked, with¬ 
out raising his eyes. 

“Half, I’d guess.” 

“Can you sell me it?” 

Burns chuckled. 

“Why, I could, but-” 

“Will you?” 

McLagan was gazing squarely into the smiling 
round face before him. The banker’s shrewd mind 
was thinking quickly. He shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “You can have that bottle, a present 
at my expense. I’m glad when a man like you gets 
interested in our stuff. Some day, maybe, you’ll quit 
oil for the other. But, say, won’t you tell me about 
it? You’ve got me guessing.” 

“There just isn’t a thing to tell, Victor.” 

“Sure?” 

The banker’s eyes were looking squarely into the 
other’s. 

“Not—now.” 

“I see.” 

McLagan had removed himself from the desk. He 
still held the bottle with its sample of gold-dust in 
his hand. 

Victor stood up and nodded comprehensively. 

“That’s all right, boy,” he said. “If it’s any use, 



242 The Saint of the Speedway 

keep that stuff. I’m shipping a mighty big dope of it 
away by next mail. You’d be astonished if you knew 
how much. Say, how’s that wreck down your way 
making out? The folks are all guessing about it. A 
lumber ship, ain’t it? Any news of the owners yet?” 

“Not yet,” McLagan replied. “Guess the seas’ll 
break her to pieces in a while. Say, Victor, I’m 
mighty obliged for our talk—and this.” He held up 
the bottle and then set it in an inner pocket. Then 
he thrust out a hand in farewell. “Guess I won’t see 
you for quite awhile. When I do I’ll have big news 
concerning oil for you. Are you looking to get in?” 

“Always.” The banker gripped the outstretched 
hand. 

“Right. I’ll do the best I know for you when the 
time comes. Thanks.” 

McLagan passed out on to the sidewalk again. Just 
for a moment he stood deeply considering, then he 
turned away and moved off in the direction where the 
best dwelling-houses stood something apart from the 
collection of hovels which made up by far the greater 
proportion of the city’s home residences. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


McLagan Achieves an End 

C LAIRE CARVER was alone in the sun-parlour, 
which was one of the many small comforts she 
had added to the square, frame building which, since 
the bettering of her fortunes, had become her home. 
She was occupying a large rocker-chair, engaged upon 
a task hardly to be expected in a woman whose nights 
were spent at the gaming tables of the Speedway, and 
whose skill, and nerve, and capacity in holding her own 
against the vulture-like flotsam haunting that gambling 
hell, was a by-word of the countryside. 

Her busy needle was plying swiftly and skilfully 
upon some intimate silken garment, the contemplation 
of which gave her the deepest sense of womanly sat¬ 
isfaction. A small table was near to her hand littered 
with all the odds and ends which usually overflow a 
woman’s work-basket. She was quite alone with her 
work and her thoughts. She was even glad that her 
mother was somewhere in the domestic quarters of the 
house engaged, as was her wont at all times, upon 
matters relating to creature comfort. She knew that 
the older woman had found solace in their new life 
and she was glad. She had found something like hap¬ 
piness in the care of her one remaining offspring who 
had become all in all to her since those days of her 
earlier disaster. 

The afternoon was well advanced. The sun was 
pouring out of the western sky, moving on with that 
243 


244 The Saint of the Speedway 

speed which ever seems to increase as the day pro- 
gresses. It was hot but pleasant. The day was quite 
windless, and the hum of mosquitoes and flies was in¬ 
cessant beyond the netting covering to the range of 
open windows with which the place was almost com¬ 
pletely surrounded. 

After a while the girl looked up and her pretty 
blue eyes were unsmiling. The satisfaction she had 
in her work found no reflection in them. There was 
even a suggestion of unhappiness in the preoccupation 
of the gaze she turned upon the scene beyond the 
netted windows. 

Perhaps she was tired. Perhaps there was weari¬ 
ness of mind behind her eyes. Her beauty was no 
less. There were no outward and visible signs of 
wear for all the high pressure of the artificial sort 
of life she lived. But the buoyancy, the intensity her 
wonderful eyes usually displayed under the shaded 
lights of the Speedway’s poker room were utterly lack¬ 
ing now. It almost suggested that the fierce fires of 
the gambler spirit had already begun to burn the youth 
out of her. 

The scene beyond the netted windows seemed to 
hold her. The city lay there sprawling on the lake 
shore. A scattering of small dwellings intervened be¬ 
tween her and the main buildings. It was squalid. It 
was as ugly as only a collection of primitive human 
dwellings could make it. From where she sat she 
could see the pretentious dome of Max’s Speedway, 
which was the medium of her fortune. She could see 
a flash of the sunlit waters of the lake, and then be¬ 
yond, overshadowing all the puny human handiwork, 
rose the dark outline of the splendid hills of her child¬ 
hood. 


McLagan Achieves an End 245 

It was the latter that held her, and in a moment the 
precious silken garment upon which she had spent 
more dollars than a year ago she could have spent 
cents, was completely forgotten. 

Her thought had flung back to another life and its 
people; folk, who, unlike herself, lived in the open and 
the daylight. She was thinking of the rugged coast 
with its fiercely alluring bays, its inlets and its up¬ 
standing headlands. She was thinking of the rough, 
strong man who lived in a home like an eagle’s eyrie 
so that he could gaze upon God’s good world and 
revel in those fierce, bracing elements which so ap¬ 
pealed to and matched his own nature. She remem¬ 
bered that last recent meeting with him on the deck 
of the wreck in the bay from which she had fled in 
utter and complete panic. 

It was a moment not easily to be forgotten. She 
still shrank from contemplating her own display of 
weakness, but it robbed her of not one moment’s de¬ 
light in the memory of the quiet nerve and calm reso¬ 
lution with which Ivor McLagan had reassured and 
comforted her. Then she remembered the time when 
he had deliberately picked her up in his arms and 
helped her over the vessel’s side. He had done it with¬ 
out a second thought, and as though he had been deal¬ 
ing with some terrified child. And then she remem¬ 
bered his plain face as it had smiled back into hers 
over the side of the vessel as returning courage had 
once more restored her confidence. 

He was quite plain and generally unsmiling for all 
a certain humour she sometimes saw lying behind his 
eyes. Then he was so harshly rough—at times. It 
was not always so. And it was mostly manner. Oh, 
she knew that, and she smiled softly to herself as she 


246 The Saint of the Speedway 

thought of the fashion in which he had sought to 
drive her from the deck of that vessel. She sighed. 
She liked him. She liked and trusted him. Nobody 
could help liking him, she told herself. He was so 
transparently honest and—and simple. Then she 
smiled again, almost tenderly, as she reviewed those 
scenes in which he and she had been the only actors. 
How many were they? How many times had he 
asked her to-? 

Her eyes sobered and her thought passed swiftly 
to another man. It was the dark Italian face of Max 
Lepende that shut out her vision of the other. The 
thing she feared, the thing she had even discussed 
with Ivor, was impending. Her woman’s instinct was 
deeply perturbed as she thought of a little scene that 
had occurred just as she was leaving the Speedway 
the night before. Max had approached her as her 
game broke up. She had had an especial run of good 
luck. He came to her smiling, elaborate, and impres¬ 
sive in his manner. He had asked her permission to 
ride with her in her automobile to her home. There 
was a bunch of “toughs” around, he told her. He 
had had word of a possible hold-up. She must bank 
with him for the night and he begged her to accept 
his escort. Then had come the demonstration of the 
man’s purpose. In the automobile he had produced a 
jewelled pendant of great value. He had craved her 
acceptance of it with all the display which his extrava¬ 
gant manner made so sickening to her. He had al¬ 
most forced it upon her. But she had refused, defi¬ 
nitely, even coldly, and she had witnessed the instant 
effect of her refusal upon him. 

The girl was more of a psychologist than perhaps 
she knew. She had certainly learned to know some- 



McLagan Achieves an End 247 

thing of the man who ruled over the destinies of the 
Speedway. She had watched Max as he returned the 
pendant to its case. Driving the automobile, with her 
eyes on the disreputable road, she had still been aware 
of the sudden cold, hard light that had replaced the 
smile in the man’s dark eyes, and noted the almost 
vicious snap with which he closed the case over the 
glittering jewels he had offered her. And in that mo¬ 
ment she had remembered her talk with Ivor on .the 
subject of this man, and was glad of it. It was good 
to think of Ivor McLagan, with his plain strong face, 
at such a moment. And the more so when the car 
had stopped at her home, and Max had alighted and 
was taking his leave of her. What were his parting 
words? Oh, she remembered them. They were not 
easily forgotten, and as much for their tone as their 
text. He had spoken with the same old smile she 
knew by heart, and which she knew to be as mean¬ 
ingless as all the rest of his artificialities. 

“I guess the hold-up didn’t mature,” he had said. 
“I sort of felt it wouldn’t, Claire, with me around. 
You see, the folks of this city mostly have more sense 
than to get across me. The toughest of them wouldn’t 
take a chance that way. And they’re surely wise. I’m 
feeling sore, my dear, you couldn’t feel like handling 
that toy I was hoping to pass you. Think it over. 
Don’t leave it the way it is. Get a sleep on it and 
maybe, like that hold-up, you’ll think better of it.” 

It was a threat and the girl knew it. It was that 
moment which she had long since contemplated when 
she must choose between this smooth, unscrupulous 
creature who had built his fortune upon the human 
weakness of those about him, and abandoning the 
precincts of the place which had represented salvation 


248 The Saint of the Speedway 

to her in her darkest moments. Ivor was right. 
“You’re going to get it if you keep on-” She re¬ 

membered his words. They were right. She had 
known it at the time he had uttered them. And, some¬ 
how she was glad and it comforted her, that it was 
he who had uttered them, and begged her to quit the 
game at the Speedway. Well- 

She turned her head sharply. She heard voices 
talking beyond the parlour doorway. They were her 
mother’s and another which she recognised instantly. 
It was the voice of the man of whom she was think¬ 
ing. In a moment she had bundled the silken garment 
in her lap out of sight. 

There was no sign to indicate Claire’s mood of the 
moment before. She was smiling up into McLagan’s 
face, and the man was telling her without subterfuge 
the object of his visit. 

“You see, Claire,” he said, “I had to come along 
for two reasons. One is, I’m going right up into the 
hills for a month or so and won’t be along back in 
Beacon till summer’s nigh through and so I won’t see 

you in quite awhile. And the other is-” He 

laughed in his short, unmirth ful fashion, “why— 
something else.” 

The mother had left him to make his way to the 
sun-parlour while she returned to her interrupted 
labours. She was glad enough to do so. There was 
never a moment in her simple life that she was com¬ 
pletely without hope of this man as a son-in-law. 

McLagan had sprawled his great body into a pro¬ 
testing cane-rocker. The table, with its feminine litter 
intervened between him and the woman who was the 
most precious thing in all the world to him. 




McLagan Achieves an End 249 

“Seeing there’s two reasons, I guess that’s so,” 
Claire said slily. Then her smile lit anew. “But I’m 
real glad you came along now, Ivor. I’d just have 
hated you going along up to the hills and being away 
all that time without seeing me first.” Then she 
laughed outright. “Say, what’ll your tame spook be 
doing with you away?” 

The man shook his head. 

“I don’t rightly know,” he said seriously. “Maybe 
the sea’ll swallow him up. And I’d say it would be 
good that way.” Then a deep light grew in his eyes. 
“But it’s real kind of you saying that, Claire. I just 
had to come along, anyway.” 

The girl wanted to ask him why. There was an 
impulse, a quick, hot impulse to challenge him, and 
somehow it was an impulse which only a brief while 
ago would never have been stirring. But she re¬ 
frained. Instead she turned her eyes to the wide-open 
windows, and gazed away at the hills of her child¬ 
hood. 

“You see, I’ve got things to tell you—before I go. 
And they’re important,” McLagan went on quietly. 

The girl’s gaze remained upon the hills so full of 
memory for her. But suddenly her pulses had started 
to hammer in a fashion so unruly that she was horri¬ 
fied lest the man might be aware of it. 

“You mean about that—wreck?” 

“Yes. About that—wreck.” 

Claire sighed. Her pulses had suddenly sobered. 
But the calm that replaced her moment of emotion 
had no satisfaction in it. Now her gaze came back 
to the man’s face. And the wide blue eyes were striv¬ 
ing for a smile of interest she did not feel. 

“Yes, tell me,” she said, with a pretence of eager- 


250 The Saint of the Speedway 

ness. “It was all very mystifying and horrible. I 
haven’t forgotten. I’d say it isn’t easy to forget that 
sort of thing. My, I was scared.” 

McLagan began to grope in his pockets. 

“May I smoke?” He was holding up his cigar- 
case. 

“Surely,” the girl laughed. “Isn’t it queer? You 
haven’t always asked that.” 

“No,” the man smiled back. He glanced about the 
handsome loggia with its pretty comforts. “It’s queer 
the way we change with circumstances.” 

“Yes. Smoke up. I like the rougher things best. 
Maybe I didn’t always feel that way. I’ve seen so 
much of the smooth and shining since I came to Max’s 
Speedway that I kind of like to think of the rough 
granite I used to know back there in the hills.” 

McLagan glanced out of the window as he lit his 
long, lean cigar. 

“Yes,” he said. “It’s stood up to things since the 
world began. Say, kid, I want you to hand me any¬ 
thing you can about—Jim. I mean, I know the story 
you and your Mum handed me at the time. I know 

all that, but- Say, he’d made a real big strike in 

Australia and was on his way back to home. Was he 
bringing his stuff along? Or was it banked? What 
were the plans he’d made? I sort of remember a long 
letter he’d sent. Did he hand your Mum details?” 

Claire was startled. She sat up in her rocker and 
one beautifully shaped hand was raised and passed 
across her smooth brow. Then it rested for a mo¬ 
ment upon her wealth of ruddy hair. 

“We—we don’t know a thing, Ivor,” she said in 
a low voice, as she gazed earnestly into his face. “Not 
a thing but what you’ve heard from us. He’d made 



McLagan Achieves an End 251 

a strike. I—I believe it was a wonderful strike. His 
letter conveyed that. And he was on his way home 
on the Imperial with the result of it. But whether 
in dust or a bank credit I can’t even guess. Then the 

ship sank, and he was drowned-” 

McLagan shook his head. 

“Not drowned/’ he said. 

For some moments there followed complete silence. 
“But the ship sank. They picked up the SOS. 
She’s never been heard of since. It was in mid-ocean. 
And Jim—Jim has never been heard of again.” 

The girl’s protest came with swift passionate in¬ 
tensity. 

“The ship didn’t sink. And Jim wasn’t—drowned.” 
McLagan spoke in that queer rough fashion he 
never failed to use in moments of deep conviction. 

Claire stared at him with questioning eyes. A 
surge of emotion was driving through her. There 
was such conviction in the man’s tone and manner. 
Jim was not drowned. The Imperial did not sink. 
Suddenly she leant forward. 

“What do you mean, Ivor?” she urged in a tone 
almost as rough as his. “Tell me. Tell me quick. 

I must know. Jim’s alive. The Imperial -” 

McLagan shook his head. 

“I don’t think he’s alive. And the ship-” 

“You mean he’s dead—killed—maybe-” 

“Murdered for his stuff.” 

Again there fell a silence and the man watched the 
face of the girl through the smoke of his cigar. Her 
breath was coming quickly, and she was struggling 
for composure. At last she steadied herself. 

“Ivor, tell me. Oh, tell me all you know. Don’t 
keep me in suspense. I know. I see. It’s—it’s some- 






252 The Saint of the Speedway 

thing to do with that wreck and—and the shadow-” 

She flung out one delicate finger, pointing, “That fig¬ 
ure. It—it—was—Jim’s—shadow. Oh!” 

The girl’s intuition had leapt. There was excite¬ 
ment, passion, horror in that final ejaculation and the 
man saw that it was no moment for delay. There 
was a dreadful look in the beautiful eyes that were 
gazing wildly into his. He removed his cigar. 

“Get a grip on yourself, little girl,” he said quickly, 
and in that tone of gentleness he only rarely used. 
“I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not a deal. But it’s 
enough to say—to my mind—that Jim was murdered. 
The wreck down on my coast is your Jim’s ship. That 
I know beyond doubt. And that shadow—I don’t know 
how it comes there, I don’t know the meaning of 
ghostly shadows, but I guess I’ve convinced myself I’ve 
recognised in that shadow a crazy sort of outline of 
your Jim. Jim was a mighty big man and he had a 
walk I’d recognise dead easy. Do you remember, kid, 
that ghost, or whatever it was, was moving. It was 
a queer figure of a man walking—towards us. Do you 
remember? But of course you do. Do you know I 
sort of recognised Jim’s walk in that thing’s move¬ 
ments?” He shook his head with a puzzled, far-off 
look in his eyes. “Guess, maybe, it’s fancy. Maybe 
I’m all wrong. But, anyway, the notion’s back of my 
head. Jim died right there on that deck. He was 
killed—murdered —while he was walking aft” 

He went on at once as the girl remained silent. 

“Who killed him? And why?” He shrugged his 
great shoulders. “That’s the thing I’m going to find 
out. Where’s the skipper and crew of that ship? 
They quit her in fair weather. Why ? Who changed 
her name? Why? Why kill your brother? For his 


McLagan Achieves an End 253 

wad? Sure. Not for any bank credit. Where’s his 
partner, that boy, Len Stern? He’s not showed up.” 

Claire was listening to his every word with close 
attention. Such was her intensity that her lips moved 
as though she were repeating to herself the things he 
said. The instant he ceased speaking, sharp and pas¬ 
sionately came her challenge. 

“You’ve more than that to tell, Ivor!” she cried. 
“Tell it me. You must. Oh, you don’t know all this 
means to me. You don’t know the ugly thing you’ve 
raised up in me. Ivor—Ivor—! I think I could kill 
the man who murdered our Jim with my own two 
hands. He was my brother. He hadn’t a thought but 
for us. There’s not a thing in all the world I wouldn’t 
do to—to hand those folks who murdered him the 
justice they need. It just frightens me the way I 
feel. Tell me.” 

“There isn’t a thing more to tell now, Claire. There 
surely isn’t. I don’t know a thing yet but what I’ve 
told you. But I mean to know.” 

“And then you’ll come to me—and tell me?” 

McLagan shook his head. 

“Ther’ll be no need.” The man sat forward in his 
chair, and reaching out one hand it closed over 
the slim hand of the girl, which, in her urgent emo¬ 
tion, had been laid upon her work-table. His whole 
manner had softened from his threat against those he 
was seeking. And, listening to him, the girl grew 
calm under the influence of his gentle tone of supreme 
confidence. “Say, Claire, I’ve asked for the right to 
fix things for you. I’ve asked, and you’ve always re¬ 
fused. Well, I’m asking nothing now. I’m just tell¬ 
ing you. Jim was your brother. Well, I’m just taking 
to myself the right to get after the folks who’ve killed 


254 The Saint of the Speedway 

him. You can’t stop me. No one can. And when 
I’ve located ’em, when I’ve got ’em where I need ’em, 
they’ll be dealt with, sure as God, in the fashion they 
deserve. It’s my right which you can’t deny me. Jim 
was a friend of mine and I love his sister better than 
life. No,” he went on, in the same gentle tone, as the 
girl released her hand from his. “I’m making no 
break. I’m not asking a thing. I’m just telling you the 
straight fact, and assuring you of the thing my mind’s 
fixed on. Maybe I’ve made you angry. I can’t help 
it. I don’t want to. There’s not a thing farther from 
my mind. I want you to get the fact I’m claiming a 
right the world, and you, can’t deny me. Now I want 
you to try and forget all about it.” 

“How can I forget it all?” 

The girl shook her head. The trouble in her eyes 
was almost painful. But through it all there was some¬ 
thing gazing out upon this big plain creature which 
anybody but he must have interpreted without a sec¬ 
ond^ thought. 

“To you Jim has been dead nearly a year,” McLagan 
said. “It’s just as it was. Only the circumstances are 
different—now.” 

“I didn’t mean that.” 

“What did you mean ?” 

The man was startled. In an instant a flush dyed 
his weather-stained cheek. Then it paled abruptly. 
He turned and flung his cigar at an open window. It 
hit the netting and fell on the floor. He sprang up 
and collected it again and turned to the girl sitting with 
her face turned away so that he only beheld the charm 
of its profile. 

“Claire?” 

“Yes, Ivor?” 


McLagan Achieves an End 255 

“Would it worry you if I made another bad break?” 

The girl shook her head. 

“I don’t think so, Ivor.” 

The man smoothed back his unruly hair. 

“Here, I want to get it clear. There’s just one sort 
of break I feel like making.” 

His tone was rough and contained nothing of his 
real feelings. 

The girl inclined her head and her eyes came frankly 
to his face. She read the doubt there. She read a 
whole lot more. 

“I only seem to remember one sort of break,” she 
said, with the dawn of a smile that was irresistible. 

“Thank God!” 

In a moment all doubt had passed out of the man’s 
eyes. He was smiling with all the transparent happi¬ 
ness of a schoolboy. He came over to the girl’s chair, 
and, reaching down, took possession of both her yield¬ 
ing hands. She stood up, tall and slight, and infinitely 
beautiful in her pretty afternoon frock. 

“Now the right is doubly mine, little girl,” he said. 
“And, by God! there’s no one on this darn old earth 
going to rob me of it. Mine, eh? Mine at last!” And 
caught her up in his arms. 


CHAPTER XIX 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 

M cLAGAN surveyed the litter strewn about the 
beach. It was a queer collection. There were 
two upturned boats with their white seams smeared 
and daubed heavily with tar. They were hardly recog¬ 
nisable as the well-painted lifeboats that had once stood 
on the boat deck of the wreck lying on the far shore 
of the bay. A wealth of ship’s ropes sprawled upon 
the shingle. Ropes collected as a result of sheer cov¬ 
etousness rather than from a point of view of utility. 
Many of them were great hawsers and of no use what¬ 
soever in the sort of sailing that Sasa Minnik under¬ 
took. Then there were heavy cable chains, and ship’s 
buckets. There was a great store of tumbled ship’s 
canvas. There were pots and pans and tools of every 
description. There were an array of lumber, too, and 
blankets, and plates, and knives and forks and dishes. 
It was an amazing collection of sheer loot which only 
the undisciplined mind of the half-breed could have 
prompted. And it had been amassed in the two months 
and more that McLagan had been away on his trip 
up into the hills. 

For some moments the white man regarded the col¬ 
lection with frowning eyes. Then his gaze came back 
to the sturdy figure of his servant whose dark features 
were screwed up into that which the other interpreted 
as a grin of sublime predatory satisfaction. His own 
256 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 257 

eyes were deadly serious for all the smile lurking be¬ 
hind them. 

“Sasa,” he said quietly, “you always were a rogue 
and a thief and a liar, but I never guessed you were 
a bigger rogue than coward. The temptation of all 
this loot was too much even for your scare, eh? 
You’ve been aboard that wreck, and you’ve looted it 
from end to end. I guess I ought to beat you. I surely 
ought. But I’m not going to. No. It kind of seems 
to me your low-down thieving nature’s knocked some¬ 
thing that’s even worse out of you—your rotten scare 
of that ship. And that’s surely to the good. For me 
you can keep your junk. But I don’t know what’ll 
happen when the big Commissioner knows the thief 
you are. Maybe he’ll have you hanged by your neck. 
You helped save my life when that guy wanted it bad. 
But I don’t see how I’m going to butt in when the big 
Commissioner gets busy on you.” 

The half-breed was undisturbed by the threat. 
The creases on his ugly face only deepened and he 
shook his head. 

“The big man, Commissioner, not say nothing, boss,” 
he said. “He come by ship. I tak him by ’em. Oh, 
yes. An’ I say him: ‘Dis junk. It not nothing bimeby. 
The sea all have ’em. Why not Sasa have ’em ?’ An’ 
him big man say: ‘Sasa have him all much plenty what 
he darn please.’ So I tak ’em all dis thing much. 
An’ bimeby plenty much more. Maybe bimeby I mak 
’em good trade. Oh, yes.” 

“I see. Boss Goodchurch has been around?” 

“Sure, boss. He come with him mans two. Him 
look an’ look. Him see all thing plenty, but not the 
devil spirit. Oh, no.” The man’s eyes widened at 
the mere memory of the terrible shadow he still feared 


258 The Saint of the Speedway 

so dreadfully. “Him no sun when big man come. 
Him not see. No. Then Sasa think big much. Sasa 
say: ‘No sun, no devil spirit.' It good. Sasa go by 
ship when no sun. He wait. The sun him go down in 
sea. It good. Bimeby Sasa get all thing that way. 
Yes.” 

McLagan laughed, and the half-breed grinned back 
at him. 

“You’re all sorts of a scoundrel, anyway, Sasa.” 

“Sasa much wise man.” 

The man’s final retort was quite unanswerable, and 
the white man left it at that. 

He glanced out over the grey, cold-looking waters. 
The whole bay was more than usually desolate and 
bleak now that the height of summer had spent itself. 
The fall lay ahead. It was already in the atmosphere. 
That swiftly passing fall, when days shorten merci¬ 
lessly and the nights grow in length with the coming 
of the fierce season when the interminable northern 
light makes life a burden hard to bear. His absence 
of ten weeks was a slice out of the northern summer 
that left little enough of a season in which the heart of 
man can rejoice. 

He had completed his work—that urgent work 
which meant so much to his Corporation, and to him¬ 
self, and those who shared in his labours. But he 
knew that the importance of it by no means ended 
there. In the end it would mean the complete estab¬ 
lishment of the whole region, and the well-being of 
those adventurers who had made it their hunting 
ground. It had been ten weeks of enthralling labour 
crowned by a success of which even he had hardly 
dared to dream. All he had suspected, hoped for, all 
the astute Peter Loby had assured him of, had been 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 259 

proved beyond any element of doubt. The greatest 
coal and oil belt the world had ever known had been 
definitely discovered. 

It ran right back from within sixty miles of the 
coast sheer through the hill country across into 
Canadian territory. And beyond that it was almost 
impossible to say how much it occupied of that chaotic 
region. The work had been hard. There had been 
times when breaking trail by river and portage through 
well-nigh unexplored regions was almost fierce. But 
nothing had deterred, nothing had deflected his pur¬ 
pose. His investigation had been as complete as the 
time permitted. And now he had returned to his home 
on the bay with a rough draft map sufficiently detailed 
for the purposes of obtaining at Washington and Ot¬ 
tawa the coveted concessions. 

But his return had been an even greater triumph 
than that. After all, the work of survey had been 
something prospective. It was a wide searching for¬ 
ward for the future. It was something appealing to his 
engineering mind, and would doubtless appeal to the 
men of finance supporting him. But it would mean 
infinitely less to those folk in Beacon who were yearn¬ 
ing for the immediate. The appeal of the immediate 
was awaiting his return to camp. 

The great news reached him on the river fully three 
days east of his oil camp. It came by a special river 
man who had been despatched to locate his outfit. The 
man had been sent with an urgent recall. For the 
lesser men in the camp, in the absence of their chiefs, 
found themselves incapable of dealing with the amaz¬ 
ing situation that had arisen. A gusher had broken 
out at “Number eight” drill. It was a tremendous 
gusher at a drilling that had given no sign of the oil 


260 The Saint of the Speedway 

they were about to strike. It had come in a flood that 
looked like thousands of barrels a day, a stream for 
which their preparations were wholly inadequate. So 
the urgency of the despatch. 

That was more than a week ago now. They had 
speeded home in a delirium of anticipation. And even 
their anticipation failed to approach the reality. The 
thing was infinitely greater than the fancy of the mes¬ 
senger had painted it, and the difficulties of its control 
were immense. But their presence was a tremendous 
spur, and the genius of Loby did the rest. At length 
order was achieved out of chaos, and all chance of 
permanent disaster was averted. 

Now McLagan was on his way to Beacon with his 
amazing news. All sorts of urgent work lay before 
him. But on one thing he was fully determined. Who¬ 
ever else must wait, Claire should be the first person 
to learn of the triumph in which his work of this drab 
grey coast was about to terminate. 

His mood was a happy one in which to greet the 
henchman who served him so faithfully. Little won¬ 
der then there was a smile behind the eyes witnessing 
the half-breed's demonstration of human cupidity. 
Even he found it difficult to administer the necessary 
chiding. In a few hours' time he would be in Beacon 
with his sensational news that would send the stocks 
of his Corporation soaring sky high. He would be 
gazing into wonderful eyes which had been one long 
tantalizing dream to him during the week of his la¬ 
bours. He would be holding Claire's fair slim body 
in a tight embrace, and telling her of the great things 
Fortune had cast for them. It was all so very, very 
good to contemplate. 

It was really all too good to permit of the obtrusion 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 261 

of lesser things. But McLagan refused to yield to his 
natural excitement. There were other things which 
must not be ignored. And the sense of their impor¬ 
tance was the more deeply impressed upon him as he 
contemplated Sasa Mannik with his collection on the 
beach, and the desperate shape which had befallen the 
pitiful wreck lying at the far side of the bay. 

Even from the distance the inroads of the storming 
tides were discernible. The battering of the vessel’s 
hull was pathetic. There were added gashes in the 
poor thing’s sides where her lumber cargo somehow 
contrived to protrude. There was no longer a stitch 
of canvas upon her yards to scare the sea-fowl with its 
whipping in the chill wintry breeze blowing in off the 
ocean. Whether or not this was due to Sasa’s depre¬ 
dations it was impossible to tell. It might be. All her 
gear was limply adrift, and her yards were lying sadly. 
She was leaning at a perilous angle, and the tides had 
driven her farther up on to the rocks. One real great 
storm and anything might happen to her. 

McLagan turned again to his henchman. 

‘‘Well? What you been doing besides loading down 
the beach with all this junk?” 

“I fish by the Lias.” 

The half-breed had lowered his tone significantly. 
And McLagan sought to penetrate the close mask of 
immobility which seemed to have settled upon the 
man’s features. 

The white man permitted a shadowy smile. 

“Did you make a swell catch?” 

“Maybe, yes. Maybe, no.” Sasa shrugged. “I mak 
big look for the man who mak shoot you all up. I 
think big. Plenty big. I say, this man. Maybe I find 
him. Yes. Boss all say plenty Sasa big coward. Him 


262 The Saint of the Speedway 

frightened of fool jack-rabbit. I mak find this man. 
Then I show him. I kill him all up dead.” 

McLagan laughed. 

“But you didn’t find him,” he said slily. 

Sasa shook his black head. 

“No,” he said simply. “So he live. But I find 
some thing. Yes. I mak find cave. Oh, yes. It 
camp for man. I know him. It all mak clean not so 
as an Eskimo camp.” 

He chuckled quietly. “Him all swep clean. So. 
An’ so.” He took his cap from his mane of hair and 
a sweeping gesture illustrated his words. “Maybe 
him camp this man. Oh, yes.” He returned his head- 
gear to its place. “I watch him. Long time. Yes. 
No. He not come. An’ bimeby I go. Yes.” 

“That was the ‘some thing’ ?” 

“Sure. An’—another some thing.” 

“Ah.” McLagan’s tone was interested but he 
glanced away seawards. Then, quite abruptly, he in¬ 
dicated the house on the cliff. “We’ll get right back 
to home,” he said. “You can hand me your yarn as we 
go. You’ll have to get food right away. I’m beating 
into Beacon as soon as I’ve eaten. You’ll need to stop 
around this bay till I’m through an’ get back. Guess, 
since the Commissioner doesn’t kick, you can go right 
on collecting your junk till the beach is like a ship’s 
store. I don’t care a curse what you do so you don’t 
quit it. See? The fish can wait.” 

McLagan’s journey into Beacon was made at his 
usual reckless speed. But unlike his usual habit he did 
not drive straight to the Plaza Hotel. It might have 
been expected that bearing such news as he was con¬ 
veying to the city he would have sought out the one 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 263 

place whence its circulation would have been the most 
rapid. Then there was Claire. A wild desire was 
urging him to go straight to the square frame-built 
home that had now become almost the whole focus of 
his life. But he resisted it. For once in his life he 
entered the city almost secretly. His speed had been 
furious, and his ponies were well nigh tuckered out, 
as, in the wintry cool of the evening he drew up out¬ 
side a remote livery barn that stood on the farthest 
outskirts of the city. 

The man’s plans were clearly designed. There was 
no hesitation. There was no deviation from the line he 
had marked out for himself. It was dark when he 
turned his spent team over to the proprietor of the 
barn. He gave strict and minute instructions for the 
care of the weary beasts. Then he set out on foot, 
and the darkness swallowed him up. 

It would have been difficult to associate shadows 
with Claire’s smiling blue eyes, raised as they were so 
happily to the rugged face of Ivor McLagan. His 
embrace showed no signs of yielding. It was an em¬ 
brace that expressed all the pent feeling of those weeks 
of absence which haunting memory had so desperately 
prolonged. Yet only a moment before his coming a 
deep depression had reigned where now there were 
only happy smiles. So it had been for much of 
the time of his absence. 

The girl gently withdrew herself from his arms. It 
was as though the riot of her own feelings was such 
as to demand restraint. She laughed happily. And 
she strove to hold a torrent of questions in check. 

“Why, Ivor,” she cried almost reproachfully, “I 
hadn’t a notion you were within miles of the city. 


264 The Saint of the Speedway 

When I heard your dear old voice laughing and jolly¬ 
ing Mum in the hall-way, I could have shouted for joy. 
I surely could. When did you get through? When 
did you get in ?” 

She moved to a big rocker chair and pulled it for¬ 
ward. She led him towards it and McLagan dropped 
his big body into it with a content that was shining in 
every line of his plain face. Then she drew up her 
own chair near to him. 

“Why, last evening.” 

“Last evening?” 

McLagan nodded, and his smile deepened at the 
girl’s tone of reproach. He spread out his hands in 
a gesture that was meant to disarm. 

“It had to be that way, kid,” he said. “It just had 
to be. I could have beat it right along to here. But 
if I had I’d never have quit to fix all the stuff that 
helped to bring me along back here to you. Say, I 
hadn’t a minute till now that I haven’t been on the dead 
run. And when I’ve told you you’ll be glad. I wasn’t 
getting around here till I could sit and bask right along 
in the only smile that makes a feller’s life worth while.” 

He eased himself in his chair. Then he reached 
out and possessed himself of the arm of the girl’s 
chair. His great hand closed over it, and, with con¬ 
summate ease, he drew it up to his. They were facing 
each other, and so close that the polished arms of the 
chairs touched side by side. He glanced quickly round 
the sun-parlour. The door into the hall-way had been 
discreetly closed by the mother, whose fondest hopes 
had at last been realised. She had beaten a retreat to 
the domestic quarters which conveniently claimed her. 

The place still contrived to trap all the sunlight of 
the late summer day. The full heat of the season had 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 265 

long since passed. The wide open windows were no 
longer netted, for the not infrequent night frosts had 
done much to banish the torment of flies and mos¬ 
quitoes. 

Claire’s reproach had vanished. She was content. 

“Tell me,” she said eagerly. “I’m just crazy for all 
that’s—happened. It’s been so long, Ivor.” She 
laughed a little self-consciously. “Oh dear, you know 
I just hated the weeks till they’d passed.” 

“They didn’t worry you worse than me,” the man 
returned. “And yet, I don’t know. Maybe they did. 
You see, you hadn’t the thing I had to—say, kid.” 
He sat up in his chair. He leant forward. Reaching 
out he took possession of the slim hands lying in her 
lap, those hands he had so often marvelled over in their 
deft manipulation of the cards in the Speedway’s 
poker room. “I’ve hit the biggest thing this world can 
show a feller in the work that’s mine. Gee!” he 
breathed deeply, while his eyes narrowed as they gazed 
into the beautiful eager face before him. “I’m through 
with it all. I’m through—almost—with Beacon. 
We’re going to get right out. You and me and your 
Mum. We’re going where we can live in sunshine all 
the year round, where there’s no skitters and blizzards, 
and no muck. Do you get me, little girl? It’s right 
up to you to hand the word. We’re going to get mar¬ 
ried, you and me, just as soon as you say it. And for 
the sake of all that’s merciful, let it be before the win¬ 
ter closes down.” 

Claire laughed happily. 

“I guess you’ve fallen plumb off the main trail!” she 
cried delightedly. “You—you—great big, queer old 
thing. Now, you sit right back in that chair. My 
hands are good an’ comfortable in my lap. You’ve 


266 The Saint of the Speedway 

got to sit around the same as if I was your most im¬ 
portant director, and, as my official mining engineer, 
hand me your report so I can pass it on to the share¬ 
holders and keep them good-tempered. Now begin. ,, 

McLagan laughed. It was the laugh of a man whose 
delight was sheer obedience to a woman’s will. He 
obeyed her literally. He released her hands reluctantly 
enough and sat back. Then his smile faded out and 
Claire fancied she detected weariness in his serious 
eyes. 

“It’s easy making that report to you. You won’t 
need the maps, and those figures a real director needs. 
Here it is, kid. We’ve hit a belt of territory with a 
world’s coal and oil supply in it. We’re in first and 
we’ll have the concession before a news sheet can grab 
a detail. That’s that. Coal? There’s hundreds of 
miles of mountains of it within a hundred miles of the 
coast. Say, in two years’ time, there’ll be a railroad 
from here to our territory, and from here to the coast 
where the mail boat only stands off at present. In a 
few years there’ll be a city twice Beacon’s size right 
down there on the coast where now ther’s only a fool 
sort of landing and a bunch of longshore guys. But 
that isn’t all, kid. No. That’s all to come. The real 
thing, the big thing that’ll set Beacon whooping crazy 
is right there at our borings. ‘No. 8’ sprang a 
gusher on us. They’re capturing thousands of bar¬ 
rels of the stuff. It’s the biggest oil flood I’ve seen 
in fifteen years of a life mussed up in oil. Do you 
get it?” 

The girl nodded. A light of real excitement was 
shining in her eyes and her oval cheeks were flushed to 
something of the hue of her beautiful hair. She 
breathed deeply. 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 267 

“Yes, I think I understand. Surely I do,” she cried, 
and her hands clasped each other tightly. “It’s the big 
thing of your life, Ivor. It’s your triumph. It’s all 
you’ve been patiently working for. I know. We’ve 
often talked of it. Work. Always work. Disappoint¬ 
ment. Always disappointment. And then—oh, yes, 
I know. And Beacon. That city that’s always been 
in your mind. That ‘muck-hole,’ as you’ve always 
called it. In one bound you—you will have lifted it 
right up to a swell prosperity where there won’t be any 
need for the conditions you’ve always hated to see 
lying around. It’s your complete triumph. Your big 
thing.” 

“It should be.” The man laughed without mirth. 

“Should be? It is.” 

The girl’s enthusiasm was met with a shake of the 
head. 

“I thought that way, little girl. I guess the notion 
set me nigh crazy. The sort of junk I handed up to 
the gods of fortune would have set you laffing if you’d 
seen into my head when I knew about the thing we’d 
hit. That was at first. Then I came along down to 
home and stood up on that hill and took a peek below. 
There was the wreck. It’s the wreck of the ship that 
was bringing your Jim home. And then I guess the 
gods for fortune must have got worried. I hadn’t a 
notion of handing ’em up any more junk. The whole 
darn thing left me cold. I told myself right there 
ther’s bigger things in life than simple success. Much 
bigger! And amongst ’em, and maybe biggest of ’em 
all is the woman who reckons to move along down the 
trail of life with you, and all the things that go to 
make up her life. Her sufferings are yours, her joys 
and sorrows, and—and—no, little kid, the sight of that 


268 The Saint of the Speedway 

wreck got me right away. And I knew that the other 
didn’t matter. I wasn’t through with my work. I’d 
still got it to do. And so I came along. And that’s 
why I didn’t get around, for all I was crazy to, until 
now.” 

The girl’s eyes had grown very tender as she lis¬ 
tened to the queer rough tones of this man as he un¬ 
consciously laid bare his soul to her. There was no 
smiling response. Only a nod. But it told McLagan 
all he wanted to know. She, too, was caught again in 
the terrible tragedy that had robbed her of a brother. 

“You’re the first to hear these things,” he went on 
quietly. “Not a soul else in Beacon knows a thing. 
Not even Victor, at the Bank. No, I kept it for you. 
And you’re going to keep it close till I say. I’ve been 
on the dead run. I’ve been so busy . . . but, there, 
little girl, there’s things I can tell you and things I 
can’t. Maybe there’s some things you’ll never know. 
It don’t matter. The thing I want to hand you right 
away is we’ve had word from Len Stern. Goodchurch 
sent out word about that ship. He asked about it. 
And the authority told him she was supposed lost in 
mid-ocean. That was that. We knew. We’d got that. 
But we were playing big. I guessed our only chance 
of things was a hope of the message getting to Len 
Stern, if he was alive. It did. The news sheets took 
up our inquiry and it found him in Perth, Western 
Australia. He cabled Goodchurch he was sailing just 
after I’d set out for the hills. Two weeks back Good¬ 
church got word from Seattle. The boy would be 
along up right away. We figure he’ll be at the coast 
to-morrow and I’m going right down to meet him. I 
want his story bad. I want it. And when I got that, 
maybe-” 



McLagan Returns from the Hills 269 

He broke off, and a deep, almost savagely brooding 
light was shining in his contemplative eyes as he 
surveyed the table that still contained the litter of the 
needlework with which Claire passed so much of her 
leisure. 

“Won’t you tell me, Ivor? Can’t you?” The girl 
had reached out, and, for a moment, one of her hands 
rested on his, supported on the arm of his chair. 

McLagan shook his head and the girl’s hand was 
withdrawn. 

“Leave all this to me, Claire,” he said with some¬ 
thing of his old brusqueness. “I’m right or I’m wrong. 
If I’m right-” 

Again he broke off. And Claire saw the muscles of 
his clean-shaven jaws constrict. Somehow the sight 
left her with no desire to press him further. 

“No, my dear,” he went on, with added gentleness, 
“you carry right on. This thing’ll be through in a few 
weeks' now, one way or the other. All my own work 
is fixed. When the other’s cleared up, then ther’s only 
to close up my shanty at the coast and come right 
along in to wait for my folks—my directors. After 
that, we’ll beat it from Beacon. And my work at 
Washington and Ottawa ’ll help to hand us quite a swell 
honeymoon. Does that fix you? Will you-” 

The girl nodded, and the man leant back again with 
an air of great content. 

“That’s fixed sure,” he said. “You’ll just carry right 
on at your beloved Speedway.” 

The girl shook her head. 

“The time’s come for me to quit,” she said quietly. 

Claire was smiling, but somehow her smile was un¬ 
convincing. McLagan was sitting bolt upright. His 
eyes had suddenly narrowed. 



270 The Saint of the Speedway 

“Why?” 

It was a throw-back to all that was roughest in him. 
Again the girl shook her head. 

“Why?” 

The man’s tone was unchanged. It was compelling. 
For another moment Claire hesitated. She remem¬ 
bered the fashion in which he had hurled himself to 
her defence before, and the thought of the thing he 
might do caused her hesitation. It was the simple 
truth, or complete denial. The latter was impossible. 
She laughed a little mirthlessly. 

“It’s the thing we once talked of,” she said. 

“You mean—Max?” 

Claire nodded. 

“What is it? Tell me?” 

“It was the night before—before I saw you last.” 

McLagan nodded. His eyes were almost savage. 

“He told me there was word of a hold-up for my 
automobile. He offered to accompany me. He as¬ 
sured me no ‘hold-up’ would happen with him there. 
It didn’t. In the automobile he offered me jewellery. 
I refused it. Then he said something. Do you want 
what he said ?” 

“Every word.” There was a grim clipping to the 
man’s words. 

Accustomed as Claire was to fend for herself; ac¬ 
customed as she was to think and act without reference 
to anything but her own judgment and inclination, there 
was something that excited and thrilled her in the sim¬ 
ple act of yielding to this man’s will. It was something 
so new—something which, for all her independence, 
appealed to the woman in her. He was so strong. He 
was so ruthlessly rough. But for all her delight in 
him a queer apprehension lay back in her mind. 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 271 

“It was when he left me at the door here,” she said 
slowly. “What was it? Yes, I remember.” She 
laughed. “It isn't easy to forget. ‘I guess the hold-up 
didn't mature. I sort of felt it wouldn’t, Claire, with 
me around. You see, the folk of this city have more 
sense than to get across me. The toughest of them 
wouldn't take a chance that way. And they’re surely 
wise. I'm feeling sore, my dear, you couldn't feel like 
handling that toy I was hoping to pass you. Think it 
over. Don’t leave it the way it is. Get a sleep on it 
and maybe, like the hold-up, you’ll think better of it.’ ” 

“It was a threat ?” 

The set of the man’s face was a match for his tone. 
There was anger, hot anger in the eyes which Nature 
had designed so admirably for frowning. The girl 
nodded. 

“Oh, yes. And I remembered our talk. And I 
knew it was quitting time. I thought and thought. 
Oh, I thought so hard. I didn’t want to quit. I 
wanted to—to fight it out. You know, Ivor, I’m fool¬ 
ish that way. I’d got all the money I needed, but it 
was the thought of quitting because of—because I’m a 
woman and he’s a man. I didn’t quit. No, I went on. 
But I refused his jewellery. I refused his every ad¬ 
vance. And then I realised. Things seemed to change 
somehow, I can’t tell you how. The rest of the women 
acted differently. The servants in the place. Oh, the 
boys didn’t. And then one day Jubilee forgot to say 
fool stuff. He didn’t say much, but it was character¬ 
istic. He said, ‘The Queen is dead. Long live the 
Republic.’ I turned on him at once. I said, ‘You 
mean she’s deposed.’ His face was dead serious for 
once. He said: ‘Same thing or worse. They’ve a way 
of beheading deposed monarchs.’ Then his queer eyes 


272 The Saint of the Speedway 

followed Max as he moved about the dance-room for 
a while, and then he looked round on me. He said, 
‘Say, Claire, why not quit with the boodle ? It makes 
a revolution sick to death when anyone gets away 
with the stuff they reckon to handle for themselves/ 
I guess I managed to laugh, but there wasn’t a laugh 
back of my mind. I thought of you, Ivor. And—two 
days later I got a queer note. Here it is. You can 
read it.” 

She took a folded paper from the bosom of her frock 
and passed it to the man whose curious silence and 
seeming rigidity while she told her story set a feeling 
of apprehension stirring in the girl. McLagan took 
the paper and unfolded it. And his unsmiling eyes 
perused its contents: 

You don’t need to worry. The Light of the Aurora is 
shining, and by its light all things are seen, all things are 
known. 

For The Chief Light of the Aurora, 

A Lesser Light. 

McLagan passed back the paper without a sign, with¬ 
out a word. And the girl went on. 

“You know that note’s given me a notion, Ivor. Oh, 
I haven’t worried since I got that. And not a thing 
has happened. I haven’t even seen Max. But I’ve 
seen the boys one way and another. Those boys who’ve 
never failed to be good to me. They’re just the same. 
But to my mind there’s just one feller could have 
worded that note that way. It’s Jub—” 

McLagan stirred. 

“Leave it at that, Claire,” he broke in quickly. “It 
don’t matter who wrote it. But I’m kind of glad for 
that note, seeing I was away. But I’m right here now 


McLagan Returns from the Hills 273 

and you belong to me.” He stood up. He moved to 
an open window. For some moments he stood there 
with his back turned silently gazing out on the distant 
dome of the Speedway. 

Claire watched him. His square shoulders seemed 
to fill up the whole of the window opening. He was 
so big and strong, and- 

“Ivor!” 

Her voice was low but urgent. The man turned 
after a moment and Claire drew a sharp breath. His 
face was almost livid with a consuming rage. He 
came back to her and stood before her chair. 

“I’m going to settle with Max,” he said, through 
lips that scarcely moved. “No,” he denied, as Claire 
was about to protest. “It’s up to me,” he went on 
harshly. “That dirty Dago swine threatened you and 
would have carried out his threat if those Aurora boys 
hadn’t jumped in. Don’t you see? I do. Max would 
have put a bunch of sharps on to you. He’d have got 
at you by every trick of his dirty Dago mind until he’d 
got you skinned of your last dollar and were ready 

to squeal for mercy. Then, utterly helpless, he’d- 

By God! he’s going to pay. He’s going to pay me. 
He’s fat and rich out of the weaknesses of the poor 
folk of this city, is he? We’ll see. We’ll-” 

“No, no, Ivor!” Claire sprang from her chair. Her 
hands were held out in appeal. The terrible purpose 
shining in the man’s eyes frightened her. “Don’t do 
a thing. My dear, my dear, there’s been no harm 
done. Think of it. Thanks to those folk of the Au¬ 
rora Clan, I’ve a complete laugh on him. I’ve a for¬ 
tune, almost, in Victor’s bank. What does it matter? 
Sure it doesn’t, and then—and then in the fall we’ll 
be married and away from Beacon. No, no, Ivor, 




274 The Saint of the Speedway 

don’t look that way! Don’t act that way. You scare 
me. Besides, he’s powerful. He can buy up the toughs 

of this place. You might get- No, boy, I can’t 

spare you now. I can’t! I surely won’t! Ivor, prom¬ 
ise me.” 

The girl’s appeal was not without effect. The man’s 
ferocity seemed to ease. And she almost fancied a 
smile was somewhere back of his eyes. He shook his 
head. 

“Max will have to pay—me,” he said grimly. “You 
don’t need to worry for me, Claire. Max can do 
nothing to hurt—me.” 

“But he can. He will. He-” 

The girl’s protest died weakly away. She caught 
her breath. A flash of thought swept through her 
mind as she gazed into the stern, strong face she had 
learned at last to love so deeply. 

Then the silence was broken. And it was she who 
was speaking again. 

“Ivor,” she said, in low, gentle tones, but in a 
manner which plainly displayed her resolve. “If any¬ 
thing happens to Max through what I’ve told you, I’ll-—• 
I’ll never forgive you. I know what I’m saying—I’m 
saying it for you. Do you understand, dear? My 
love for you is so big that I won’t have you fall for a 
personal animosity. No, no! I won’t stand for it. 

I want you to remember, too, that but for Max and his 
Speedway I’d still be doing our rags of laundry down 
on Lively Creek. Remember that. I’ve beaten the 
game and I’m going to quit.” 

The man raised a hand and passed it over his hair. 

“You mean all that, Claire?” he asked. 

The girl gazed squarely up into his hot eyes. 

“I surely do, dear. There will be no-” 





McLagan Returns from the Hills 275 

“Don’t say it, little girl.” The man’s smile had 
broken out at last. “I know. There’ll be no marrying 
me in the fall. But there will.” He reached out and 
caught her in his arms. “There will be, my dear, be¬ 
cause Max can go clear for me. I’ll not do a thing 
since you ask it, since you order it. No, little girl, 
don’t look questions at me, an’ don’t ask ’em. I can 
see them back of your dandy eyes. I just love you 
to death, and I want you to feel the game of life as 
I see it needs to be a straight one. I’m quitting now. 
I’ve still got things to do. To-morrow I’m going to 
pick up Len at the coast. He and I’ll have big work 
for maybe a week. After that I’m through, and I’ll 
bring him right along to tell you of your Jim. So 
long, little Claire. I guess that note’ll still stand good. 
You’ll be safe till I get along back.” 

The daylight was passing as McLagan left Claire’s 
home. He hurried away down the unmade road lead¬ 
ing back into the eastern purlieus of the city. He came 
abreast of the Speedway which had so many turbulent 
reminders for him. But he passed it by, and thrust 
from him the leaping anger the sight of it inspired. 
He crossed over to the Plaza Hotel where he ate a 
hurried meal. Then, later, he passed again out into the 
night and his way lay westwards where the moonlight 
waters of the lake shone still and cold. 


CHAPTER XX 


The Last of the Moving Shadow 

M cLAGAN was nursing his team. For once his 
driving speed was moderated. But then he 
knew the call he had yet to make upon his ponies. 
They had already made the journey from Beacon to 
the coastal harbour, which, one day, in his dreams, 
he visualized as a flourishing seaport, the rail base of 
a fresh route to the great interior radiating about 
Beacon Glory. Miles away to the West lay the port 
of Seward where the Government railroad, cutting in 
to the heart of Alaska, began its hopelessly unprofit¬ 
able career towards Fairbanks. But no thought of 
such a failure attached to the railroad in his mind. 
Oil and coal would preclude all possibility of that. 
Furthermore the vast capital of his Corporation lay 
behind him. And lack of capital was the thing which 
had so far made a failure of the Alaskan peninsula 
which had at one time been known as “Seward’s 
Folly.” 

Now he was leaving the coast behind again, and 
beside him, on the spring seat of his buckboard, was 
the bronzed creature he had come in search of. The 
man’s baggage was enduring the violent joltings of 
the trail on the rack behind them as the two men 
talked of the thing which had at last brought them 
together again. 

“It sort of seems like yesterday I was in Beacon,” 
Len Stern said after awhile, gazing out over the 
276 


The Last of the Moving Shadow 277 

broken hill country through which they were driving. 
“Say, I mind the landmarks as if I’d never quit. You 
know, for all it’s a tough proposition it’s my home 
country in a way. I don’t mean I was born here. 
No! I’d hate to think that. But— Gee! I was glad 
quitting Perth. Man, I’ve had heat enough to make 
a feller need blankets in hell.” 

There was a smile in the dark eyes of the man who 
had journeyed thousands of miles to answer the call 
which the other had sent out on the sound waves. 
Perhaps his answer had been the more ready for the 
fact of those memories stirring now. 

McLagan shook up his ponies. 

“Well, we could do with some of it around this 
territory in winter, Len. But it’s a queer sort of 
‘come-back’ for you. Maybe it’s tough. I don’t know 
how you’re fixed. We haven’t had a deal of time to 
talk that sort of stuff. But I fetched you along, and 
I want to say right here, if it makes things better for 
you, you’re my guest all the way from Perth to here 
and back again, if you want to go. I want to tell 
you I’ve hit a trail that’s likely going to set your eyes 
wide, and make you guess you’re dreaming. But you 
won’t be dreaming. No. You’ll be wide awake look¬ 
ing on some of the worst dirt lying back of human 
nature. I’m taking you right out now to get a look 
at the Imperial, the ship your poor dead partner 
sailed for home in, and never reached. She blew in 
on this coast without a soul on board, and with her 

name changed. And with- But we’ll leave it that 

way till you’ve set your two eyes on to her. And 
meanwhile you can hand me some stuff I’m yearning 
to hear about. After we’re through with this trip 
there’ll be some more for us to do. But that can wait. 



278 The Saint of the Speedway 

Then I’ll run you right into Beacon where maybe 
you’ll be glad to hand the story of things to a lone 
mother, and the sister who’s still mourning a dead 
brother.” 

The dark face of the man from Australia was 
turned on his companion. McLagan had always been 
a dominant personality to him in the old days. It 
was the same still. His eyes were questioning, but he 
remained silent. Now that he knew this old friend 
was at the other end of the thing that had called him 
back to Alaska he was content to await developments. 
And McLagan went on in that direct fashion which 
was so characteristic of him. 

“Before I get your yam I fancy handing you mine. 
You see, the obligation’s all on me. I’m marrying 
Jim’s sister this fall, and maybe that’s partly where 
I come in on your play. But it isn’t all. No. This 
thing had got me before I knew about that. Jim was 
always a friend of mine, as you know, and when I 
learned his ship had gone down, and he’d been 
drowned it hit me for myself as well as for Claire 
and his mother. Then when this ship blew in, and 
I located that it was the Imperial, and she hadn’t 
gone down in mid-ocean, it took me guessing hard. 
Now the thing I want of you is identification. It was 
you who chartered the vessel, I guess, and you’ll know 
it again. And maybe you’ll know the skipper again 
—if you were to see him. That’s what I want of you. 
I’m reckoning Jim was aboard that ship with a big 
wad of dust. I’m reckoning the skipper feller knew 
about the dust and yearned for it so that murder 
looked good to him.” 

Len Stern’s eyes were on the sturdy backs of the 
ponies. They were hard, relentless, as they contem- 


The Last of the Moving Shadow 279 

plated the sweating brown coats where the trail dust 
lay caked upon them. 

“He sailed with more that haf a million dollars of 
dust,” he said quickly. “And the plan was he’d trade 
it where he could, touching in at ports where best it 
could be done, without too many questions. Julian 
Caspar was the shipmaster and owner, and he stood 
on a swell commission. He surely knew of the 
stuff.” 

McLagan nodded, and drew his team down to a 
walk as they mounted a sharp incline towards a wide, 
windswept plateau. 

“So, feeling that way, murder might well look good 
to him?” he said. 

“Yes. Feeling that way. And Jim not guessing.” 

“What like was this boy, Caspar?” 

“All sorts of a hard seaman.” 

Len sniffed at the fresh fall breeze which seemed 
so good to him, as the buckboard cleared the incline 
on to the plateau. An immense view opened out. It 
was a broad, treeless expanse with a wide front of 
purple hills in the distance. 

“Say,” he went on after a moment, “I made the 
deal with him. I collected him in Perth. And I’d say 
he was a boy to fix himself right on to a man’s 
memory. He was quite a chunk of a man, broad, and 
strong and medium in height. He was clean-shaven 
and rough. But the thing standing out in my mind was 

his eyes-” 

“Ah!” 

Len looked round sharply. 

“Have you seen ’em?” he asked. 

“Maybe.” McLagan nodded. “Blue. Pale, queer 
blue, like the eyes of some sort of dead fish.” 



280 The Saint of the Speedway 

“That's the boy. Ther’ ain’t two pairs of eyes like 
his in the world. You surely have seen ’em.” 

“Yep. I guess I must have seen ’em.” 

McLagan whipped up his ponies and set out across 
the plateau at a steady gait. 

“Now, Len,” he went on, “we got twenty good 
miles to make before we reach my shanty. And we 
can do a heap of talk between this and that lay out. 
It don’t seem to me that we can do better than hand 
each other our two yarns. Maybe you’ll be glad to 
hand me all you can of the things that happened after 
you quit here with Jim, till you got along now. Then 
I’ll hand you the whole story I know. But before 
you begin I want to say one thing. It’s this. That 
half a million of dust, or the bulk of it, is coming right 
back to you as the one partner left. It’s lying now 
where no harm’s likely to come to it. Jim’s gone. 
There’s no guess to that. So the stuff’s yours. And 
that’s just between you and me. You understand? 
Claire don’t need any. Nor Jim’s mother. Those 
folks are my care. Now you can start right in with 
your talk.” 

The two men climbed out of the lazaret. They had 
explored the wreck from end to end. Now they 
passed out of the alleyway under the break of the 
vessel’s poop, and came to the main hatch. McLagan 
seated himself upon it and beckoned his companion to a 
seat beside him. Curiously enough the seat he invited 
Len Stern to was the exact spot where once Sasa 
Mannik had seated himself, and from which he had 
ultimately fled in terror. 

Len sprawled himself upon the hatch which was 
lying over at the sharp angle of the vessel’s perilous 


The Last of the Moving Shadow 281 

list. And his attitude left him in full view of the 
litter of the deck which had resulted from the half- 
breed’s raids upon the vessel’s gear. 

There was a tremendous change for the worse in 
the wreck. More than two months of every condition 
of weather had made desperate inroads. The vessel’s 
whole position had been detrimentally shifted. ' The 
seas, playing on the broken hull at high tide, had 
wrought havoc, and she looked to be only hanging 
together awaiting the final belabourings which would 
ultimately complete the work of her destruction. 
Every removable article of her gear that had appealed 
to the predatory instincts of Sasa Mannik had been 
carried away. And she looked now just what she 
was, a poor tattered thing awaiting her dismal end. 

McLagan was scarcely concerned for the change in 
her. There was no sentiment about him in the matter 
of this ugly relic of a bad story. He would be glad 
enough to see the last of her—now. She had lasted 
sufficiently long for him to complete the work he had 
set his hand to. No. The oil man was concerned for 
other things. And now, as he sat beside his com¬ 
panion on the hatch, his searching gaze was turned 
skywards. 

At the moment no sun was visible. But then the 
sky was full of loose cloud that came and passed 
under a high top wind. Just now a heavy cloud had 
obscured the sun. It would pass. It was passing. 
And then— 

“It’s all like yesterday to me,” Len Stern said, as 
he gazed out over the litter. “You see, Mac,” he went 
on, with a comprehensive movement of the arm, “I 
lived with all this days coming up the coast from 
Perth. This is Caspar’s ship all right, all right. It 


282 The Saint of the Speedway 

was more than half crewed by Chinks. I wonder 
what’s become of ’em. There were two officers, and 
a third that was a promoted seaman. I doubt any 
of ’em having officers’ tickets. I’m surely wondering 
about them. Say, in that cabin there was only a meal 
for one.” 

His dark face frowned in concentrated thought. 
After a moment he went on again. 

“‘Those two empty chests in the lazaret are the 
chests our bags of dust were stowed in. Jim and I, 
and Caspar stowed ’em there ourselves. Ther’ wasn’t 
a soul else wise to them. No. That was our play. 
We couldn’t afford to take chances with a crew of 
Chinks. I wonder. But the motor launches are gone. 
Both of ’em. They cost me a pile in Perth. They 
were sea-going craft for Jim and Caspar to use in 
making their trade. You see, they could be run with¬ 
out any of the crew. We meant leaving those darn 
toughs without a guess.” 

“I see.” McLagan’s eyes were full of thought as 
they watched the slowly passing cloud. “You had 
two launches? I’d wondered. You see the lifeboats 
had been left intact. I didn’t guess there was a second.” 

“You located one?” 

Len’s question came alertly. 

“Yes. Where were they stowed?” 

“On the poop-deck. They were kept aft for con¬ 
venience and safety.” 

“I see.” 

Len stirred and sat up. 

“Tell me, Mac. You reckon sure Caspar murdered 
Jim?” 

“Sure.” 

“What about the—crew?” 


The Last of the Moving Shadow 283 

McLagan shrugged. 

“We're going to get that—later. I’d say anything 
might have happened them. Maybe they were reck¬ 
oned in his murder schedule. Maybe they were glad 
to get away easy in the second launch. But we’ll lo¬ 
cate all that—later.” 

There was a curious grimness in McLagan’s em¬ 
phasis on his final word. And he glanced quickly up 
at the sadly drooping yards as they creaked under a 
puff of stirring wind. The cloud bank had nearly 
passed, and the prevailing gloom was steadily light¬ 
ening. 

“I don’t just get how you located he’d murdered 
Jim,” Len went on curiously. “Was it sort of cir¬ 
cumstances? He knew of the gold. You’ve seen 
Caspar and know the sort of tough he is. You’ve 
located the gold. Maybe there’s more back of your 
mind than you’ve told.” 

McLagan shook his head. Then he flung out a 
hand pointing down the deck. The sun had broken 
out, and the wreck was bathed in its generous light. 

“No, boy,” he said. “Look right down the deck 
there. You’re asking the way I know Jim was mur¬ 
dered by Caspar. It’s there for you to see, and I was 
waiting on it. Am I crazy? Are we all crazy? Is 
that real or imagination ? What is it, anyway ? 
There’s Jim, right there. That queer fool shadow 
that’s trying its best to walk along towards us and 
don’t ever get nearer. That’s Jim. I’ve seen him 
before, and I wanted you to see him only I wasn’t 
sure the sun would shine right. You see that poor darn 
thing only haunts this deck when the sun shines. See, 
boy. You can see it? Eh? It’s a queer shadow. 
It’s the outline of a big man as plain as the eye can 


284 The Saint of the Speedway 

see. And it throws another shadow right on the deck. 
Am I wrong? No. I’m not wrong. Could you mis¬ 
take that big, tall body and gait, you, who’ve worked 
alongside Jim Carver? No. Jim was done right up 
on that spot. Maybe folks ’ud guess it’s a crazy no¬ 
tion. But it’s so. I’m dead sure. And now you’ve 
seen it you’ll be dead sure, too. Say, get a good look 
and we’ll get back up to my shanty and eat. And 
to-morrow we’re beating it right up into the hills 
where—Come on, boy.” 

But Len Stern was in no hurry to quit. His dark 
eyes were held fascinated by the queer shadow. Could 
he see it? Of course he could; it was there plain 
enough for anybody to see. There was no question 
in his mind. The thing was what McLagan had said 
it was. There could be no mistaking it. He was 
without any superstitious qualm. There was wonder, 
amazement in his eyes, but none of the panic which 
the vision had inspired in others. So he sat there 
fascinated. That was all. And McLagan was forced 
to urge him again. 

It was a little backwater hidden in a rift in the 
granite hills. Its mouth opening on to the waters of 
the Lias River was a ten foot split in the sheer face 
of bald rock. But inside it was quite different. 
Within a few yards of the absurd opening it widened 
abruptly, with sloping, funnel-like sides that were gra¬ 
ciously clad by a wealth of spruce growing up the hill¬ 
sides, and staunchly protected from the devastating 
winds above. It was a remote, stuffy spot, humid and 
dank, and a tangle of undergrowth profusely crowded 
the water’s edge. 

How far the widening stream ran back would have 


The Last of the Moving Shadow 285 

been difficult to determine. Maybe it was one of the 
many little hill streams which went to feed the great 
river at the time when the Spring warmth transformed 
the winter snows. Again it might easily have been 
one of those tiny recesses which have no other mean¬ 
ing than the impulse of Nature in the remote years 
of the world’s birth. Almost on the instant of entry 
upon the widening water the ultimate was obscured by 
the jutting of a hill slope. The course of the water 
swung away round a sharp bend, lost amidst the 
flourishing vegetation that looked to make its naviga¬ 
tion impossible. 

Cy Liskard was standing on the bank at the water’s 
edge. It was at a place where the undergrowth had 
been laboriously cleared. The ground was a-litter 
with fresh stumps where the cut had been made, and 
young shoots of new growth were already seeking to 
repair the human damage inflicted. 

His boat was lying in the water at his feet. It was 
moored fast to a tree stump. It was laden with his 
outfit for a prolonged journey. But the man was 
gazing about him with a queer look in his pale blue 
eyes. It was a look of puzzlement, of incredulous and 
angry surprise. It was the look of a man whose mind 
has become well-nigh paralysed by the realisation of 
a disaster of appalling nature. 

He gazed out over the water searching stupidly in 
the depths of the crowding vegetation. His gaze 
wandered to the outline of the jutting hill which hid 
the beyond. It turned back to the opening on to the 
river in the same hopeless fashion. Then it came 
again to the narrow landing upon which he was stand¬ 
ing. 

At last he bestirred himself. He moved back to 


286 The Saint of the Speedway 

higher ground and sat down on a boulder. And his 
eyes were turned upon the soft soil in which his own 
feet had made such deep impressions. He followed 
his own footprints to where he had first stepped 
ashore from his boat, and quickly realised that there 
were other footprints. Many others. A' perfect 
maze of them. 

He drew a deep breath. It was the first sign he 
had given beyond the curious expression of his usually 
expressionless eyes. He was staring at a deeply 
driven stake within a yard of the water's edge. A 
hemp rope was lashed about it. It was securely 
knotted in a fashion he knew by heart. But the rope had 
been severed, and its end lay close by on the ground. 
The thing that it had held had gone. Vanished. And 
he knew now that others had found this remote spot, 
others had ventured up that narrow rift in the rocks. 
Others had located the hiding place which had served 
him for so long. Who? Who were those others? 
And the mind behind his queer eyes was searching the 
possibilities of the thing that had happened. 

He remained seated for minutes that were rapidly 
prolonged. It was more than half an hour before he 
again bestirred himself. And in that half hour he 
had searched every avenue of explanation that pre¬ 
sented itself to him. 

He came down to the water's edge again. He de¬ 
liberately cast off the moorings of his canoe and took 
his place at the paddle. Then he headed the sturdy 
vessel inland and vanished round the bend. 

The day was well advanced when Cy Liskard re¬ 
appeared on the highway of the Lias, and turned the 
nose of his vessel towards the sea. For an hour he 


The Last of the Moving Shadow 287 

paddled feverishly at a speed that flung even the ebbing 
tide high against the bows of his little craft. 

His destination was definite in his mind. It was a 
picture that now loomed full of foreboding since the 
thing he had discovered in his long concealed hiding 
place. He came to the rockbound landing he knew by 
heart. He swung his boat out. Then with all the 
power of his body he struggled with the tide race. 
Slowly, foot by foot, he gained way. The sturdy ves¬ 
sel nosed into the stream making tremendous leeway. 
But finally his efforts were rewarded. He drove up 
to the landing and leapt ashore. 

The man had vanished within the narrow entrance 
to the cavern that lay back in the granite wall of the 
cliffs. His boat was moored fore and aft to the fa¬ 
miliar boulders. The tide race held the moorings taut 
and wearing upon the harsh surface of the stones. 
But the little vessel was secure. Soon the last of the 
ebb would have spent itself, and the period of dead 
water would relieve the strain. 

It was a silent world which the presence of the boat 
made no impression upon. The air was alive with 
circling sea-fowl whose mournful note only served to 
increase the sense of utter loneliness. Grey and bleak 
the wide expanse of the river mouth looked to be the 
very gate of Desolation. 

An hour had passed since Cy Liskard’s landing. 
A'nd in that time the sky had changed its aspect from 
the brilliant light of early fall to the grey overcast 
which the coming flood was bringing up with it. A 
ruffle of wind stirred. It came chill and keen off the 
far ocean, and a few driven raindrops splashed on the 
bosom of the waters. It was a passing phase. It was 


288 The Saint of the Speedway 

that queer atmospheric effort which so much suggests 
that in every changing of her mood Nature knows the 
pangs of labour. 

Of a sudden the man re-appeared. He came hastily. 
He came almost as though he were reeling under a 
physical shock. His soulless eyes were strangely 
alight. They were frigidly ablaze with a light that 
transformed them into a furious expression of the 
mind behind them. His weather-stained face was 
almost ghastly in its sickly hue. The lines about his 
mouth were grimly drawn. He was breathing hard, 
and the great hands that swung at his sides were 
clenched with the force of a man about to strike. 

At the cavern entrance he paused with an abrupt¬ 
ness that was almost a lurch. He turned and gazed 
into the shadowed vault behind him. Then, of a 
sudden, he raised his clenched fists above his head in 
a terrible gesture of impotent threat. Then they came 
slowly, slowly to his sides again. And in a moment 
he started towards his boat. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Julian Caspar at Bay 

C Y LISKARD was squatting on his rolled blan¬ 
kets. The interior of his log shanty was disor¬ 
dered. For all the man’s physical roughness, for all 
the conditions of the life he lived, his hut on the hills 
above the Lias River had always been something 
scrupulous in its neatness. Now its interior was com¬ 
pletely dishevelled. It was an atmosphere associated 
with final departure, with absolute quittance. 

But it was something more. It was as if the man 
had searched it completely with a view to the destruc¬ 
tion of everything that could leave a clue to the iden¬ 
tity of its occupant. There was a pile of stuff lying 
upon the hard-beaten earth floor awaiting destruction, 
and outside the door a large fire was doing its share 
in the work of concealment. Then, too, down on the 
creek below there was a great smouldering heap which 
represented the complete destruction of the elaborate 
sluice box and the general gear of the gold worker’s 
craft that could not easily be otherwise removed. 

The man had done his work systematically and 
without apparent haste. And now he sat on his blan¬ 
kets gazing out through the open doorway on the de¬ 
vouring flames of his fire. There was the pile on the 
floor yet to be consumed. There was the removal of 
his blankets and kit. Then there was the shanty itself 

to be disposed of. After that-? 

The man’s dead eyes were more than usually ex- 
289 



290 The Saint of the Speedway 

pressionless for all the teeming thought of his brain. 
He was lost in one of those fierce trains of thought 
which leave the body completely relaxed, inert. 

He had returned from the river mouth at a speed 
that rarely drove him. Apprehension had pursued 
him every mile of the way. But it was not physical 
fear. No. It was something deeper, more abiding 
than that. He was beset with concern for an invisible, 
intangible threat that seemed to be enveloping him. 
A threat that was clear enough in its work of despolia¬ 
tion without a sign of how or whence it came. Fury 
was driving him hard. Fury, and that other thing 
that left him groping for the thing he must do. 

Now as he sat waiting for the fire outside to do 
its work, he was contemplating the courses that were 
open to him. And his mind and brutish nature, being 
what they were, looked first and foremost for some 
method of retaliation upon an unseen, unknown, but 
not wholly unguessed agency that was operating for 
his hurt. 

No. It was not unguessed. Two agencies sprang 
to his mind. There was the memory of those “fool” 
figures in their hooded white cloaks who had sur¬ 
rounded him while a rawhide rope dangled before his 
eyes. For all he derided their methods they were not 
easily forgotten. Then there was that other. The 
man he had sought to kill, and who, through his 
friends, had contrived to outwit him. A queer des¬ 
peration was driving. He knew he must act quickly, 
at once. But even the feeling of desperation and the 
uncertainty of the thing about him could not rob him 
of his lust for vengeance. His lust to kill. 

His plans had been urgently completed. He knew 
he must quit his mountain retreat. He must defy 


291 


Julian Caspar at Bay 

everything and reach Beacon with all speed. His 
credit was lying at Victor Burns’ bank. That was his, 
which he believed no power could rob him of. He 
must collect it at once. It was all that had been left 
to him. And with that in his possession he would be 
free to devote himself to the vengeance which looked 
a thousand times more desirable to him now. 

He rose from his seat and replenished the fire out¬ 
side with the collected heap in the shack. It was the 
last. He had destroyed the last of his makeshift fur¬ 
nishings, and only his camp outfit and his treasured 
weapons were left to encumber his journey. And now 
he sat again, having closed the door to defend himself 
against the fierce heat and the smoke of his fire. 

Yes. Beacon must be his first objective. It would 
be easy enough. At the bank he was just an ordinary 
customer. There was, there could be no doubt about 
his credit there. He was wholly unknown except as 
a gold man from the hills. There was nothing against 
him except for the sentence of that absurd bunch who 
called themselves the Aurora Clan. They were pow¬ 
erless to interfere- He stirred uneasily. 

No. He would give them no chance. He would 
give no one any chance. He would descend upon the 
bank at the busiest time of the day, and be gone with 
his cash before a soul was wise to his presence in the 
city. Then- 

He dismissed Beacon from his mind and his thought 
was caught and held where a wrecked ship that was 
lying on the rocks at the mouth of the Alsek River. 
And curiously enough the mental vision of it robbed 
him of something of the even train of his urgent 
thought. A queer feeling took hold of him in the pit 
of the stomach. It came of a sudden, and he stirred 



292 The Saint of the Speedway 

uneasily, and strove to moisten his lips with a tongue 
that had somehow become almost dry. 

The stare of his dead eyes displayed nothing of his 
emotion. They looked and looked squarely at the lat¬ 
eral logs of the wall in front of him. Even the flutter 
of the torn cotton which covered the window directly 
above where he was gazing drew not a vestige of his 
attention. And it was not until the loose cotton ripped 
with a screaming tear that his gaze came back to the 
things about him. He looked up with a start to find 
himself gazing into the ominous ring of the muzzle 
of a heavy gun. It was thrust through the aperture 
of the windows where the cotton had been torn away. 

“Sit right there, Julian Caspar. Don’t move a little 
bit. Not a finger, boy, or you’re as dead as Jim Car¬ 
ver you murdered for his gold.” 

It was spoken quietly, almost gently, in a voice 
whose tones startled the man on his blankets and left 
him utterly unmoving. His queer eyes were fixed on 
the dark face peering in at him through the aperture 
of the window from behind the threatening gun. 

But the whole position underwent a change on the 
instant. The door was flung open and Ivor McLagan 
thrust his way in. 

“Up with those hands, Caspar!” he cried roughly. 
And his own levelled gun enforced the sharp order. 
“Right up—this time. That’s better. You didn’t do 
it right at the Speedway. You’re learning manners. 
No. Keep ’em up. Len Stern’s here and is yearning 
to sift his hands through your pockets. Get busy, 
Len. I’ll watch his monkey tricks.” 

The man on the blankets gave no sign, and his eyes 
helped the illusion of submission. His hands were 
thrust above his head while he watched the man he 


293 


Julian Caspar at Bay 

hated most in the world. But Ivor bulked large and 
fiercely threatening behind the deadly automatic he 
was gripping. And the other had reason enough to 
know there was no play-game where McLagan was 
concerned. 

In less than a minute the work was completed. Len 
Stern, relieved of his hold-up through the window, 
came to his task on the run. The man was deprived 
of his gun and a pocket full of cartridge clips. The 
rifle leaning against the wall was unloaded and put 
out of harm’s way. And furthermore, a long, razor¬ 
like sheath knife was transferred to the keeping of the 
man from Australia. 

‘‘That all, Len?” McLagan spoke in the harsh tone 
of a man without mercy. “We’re taking no chances 
with the feller who’s done up a ship’s company. Is 
he harmless?” 

“As a babe.” 

Len Stern left the man and moved clear. Then 
he waited, leaning with his elbow propped on the 
window framing while McLagan lowered his threat¬ 
ening weapon. 

The engineer’s quick eyes took in the details of the 
dishevelled interior. 

“Making a quick getaway, Caspar, eh?” he 
snapped sharply. “Making a break for the open 
where the thing lying back of you’s not going to come 
again.” He shook his head. “You can’t escape that, 
boy, not as long as you live. And when you’re dead, 
I guess you’ll get its consequences. Say, a feller can’t 
commit cold-blooded murder without it leaving a hell 
of a stain, if it’s only on the brutal mind that designed 
it. Can you guess why we’re here? Can you guess 
why Len Stem’s come all along from Perth in Aus- 


294 The Saint of the Speedway 

tralia? Sure you can. But I tell you, in case you 
don’t guess right. Len Stern’s got along to make sure 
you swing by your darn neck for murdering his part¬ 
ner, and goodness knows how many more. You can 
drop your hands.” 

The man lowered his arms and it was noticeable 
that his fists were tightly clenched. His eyes dis¬ 
played nothing but cold contemplation as they looked 
back into McLagan’s face. Those looking on, observ¬ 
ing his every movement with the closest scrutiny, were 
not without a feeling of appreciation for the sheer 
nerve he was displaying. But they were neither of 
them deceived. A storm lay behind those cold eyes. 
It was raging, consuming. And it was expressed in 
the two fiercely clenched fists. 

The man shook his head. 

“You’re wrong,” he said calmly, with a shrug. 
“You’re dead wrong. I’m not worried a thing with 
any memory of murder. I don’t have to be. I don’t 
know this feller you call Len Stern. And as for his 
partner I can’t guess the thing you’re talking. I’m a 
gold man scratching over the dirt of this creek. And 
my name’s Liskard—Cy Liskard. You’ve a hold-up 
on me for, I suppose, the stuff you reckon to get out 
of me. You’ll get not an ounce. I’m quitting for the 
reason the show don’t pay. Well?” 

It was consummately done. It was too well done. 
McLagan laughed coldly. 

“We’ll cut all that right out,” he said. He 
dropped back to the door framing and leant his big 
body against it, but his gun was in his hand ready for 
instant use. “This isn’t any old game of bluff. It’s 
just cold business that’s going through as we fixed 
it. You can keep that junk for the law courts where 


Julian Caspar at Bay 295 

you’ll stand up to answer for your play. For the 
moment the things concerning us are toting you right 
in to Beacon, and handing you over to Alan Good- 
church. Then you’ll be passed on to Fairbanks. I’m 
not wise if they use an electric chair there or hang 
a boy like you right out of hand. It don’t signify, 
anyway. They don’t treat murder easy in Fairbanks, 
which makes me feel good passing you along in that 
direction. Your ponies are fixed for your journey. 
You’ve set things that way, and I’m obliged. We’ll 
be able to travel the quicker. You can get up off 
those blankets. You’re going to start right away. I 
can’t give you even blanket room on the journey. 
You see, we’re going to make Beacon quick.” 

But the man who had been called Julian Caspar 
made no attempt to obey. He stirred where he sat, 
but that was all. McLagan was watching. He was 
watching with every faculty alert. He was looking 
to read behind that baffling mask which was his vic¬ 
tim’s greatest asset. 

It was that slight shift of position that betrayed. 
It was an unconscious movement impelled by some 
inner qualm, a qualm similar to that which had as¬ 
sailed him when he had thought of the wreck at the 
mouth of the Alsek River. And a feeling of satis¬ 
faction warmed McLagan as he waited for the reply 
he saw coming. 

The man spoke harshly, but without any sign of the 
fury that was driving him. He had himself under 
a control that rarely enough gave way, and was 
strongest in emergency. 

“You’re talking a whole lot, McLagan,” he said, 
“but you’re not talking the way of a feller who’s dead 
sure of the thing he’s putting on the other feller.” He 


296 The Saint of the Speedway 

shook his head. 'Try again. Maybe that way you’ll 
make me feel like the boy you’re reckoning to make 
me believe I am. A hold-up’s generally got more be¬ 
hind it than seems. You see you’re not a sheriff, or 
a law officer. You’re just an oil man. I haven’t seen 
a sign of any warrant for my arrest. Do you get 
me?” 

McLagan smiled at the shrewd retort. He was 
more than prepared for it. He signed to Len Stern, 
while his gun was raised ever so slightly covering his 
man. 

“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “I’m not wor¬ 
rying for details. You can think the thing you 
please. We won’t waste time in discussion. Just fix 
those bracelets right on his wrists, Len, and then go 
fix his ponies ready for the start. No, Caspar. Don’t 
move. Not a move. As sure as God I’ll fix you right 
here. And I’ll fix you better than the mess you made 
of things down at my home place. I told you then 
you’ll hang, and that’s sure why I’m here now. That’s 
it, Len,” he went on, as the irons were clipped on the 
man’s wrists, “Now go and see to his plugs while I 
look to him.” 

The two men remained watching each other in si¬ 
lence after Len Stern had passed out of the shack. It 
seemed as if a tremendous silent conflict of will was 
raging. The hard face of Julian Caspar was appar¬ 
ently unyielding under the hate that no power of his 
seemed able to abate. The eyes of the other were 
harshly compelling, and kept the queer dead eyes of 
his victim unblinkingly observing him. McLagan’s 
decision was clear in his mind. It was impossible to 
judge of the thing passing in the mind of the other 


Julian Caspar at Bay 297 

as he sat with his shackled hands resting on his 
drawn-up knees. 

At last the prisoner shook his head. 

“You’re needing something, McLagan,” he said, his 
face slightly relaxing. “Maybe I can guess the thing 
it is. Well, if you’re ready to hand out the price I’ll 
sell what you need.” 

McLagan drew a deep breath. Quite suddenly a 
curious feeling of admiration stirred within him. The 
man’s words and manner inspired him with a sense 
of his own inferiority. His shrewdness and nerve 
amazed him. He felt he had been read like an open 
book. He failed utterly to realise that this man was 
fighting for something he treasured above all else—his 
life. And knew full well that it was forfeit unless his 
wit should adequately serve him. 

He nodded. 

“I surely do,” he said quietly. “And when a mur¬ 
derer is captured, and the irons are fixed right, there’s 
only one price he can ask. That’s freedom.” 

“That’s so. Well?” 

The relaxing was gone from the man’s face. Mc¬ 
Lagan read the anxiety lying behind that final inter¬ 
rogation. 

“I let you go once before, Caspar,” he went on 
coldly. “I told you then you’d hang, you were born 
to hang. That’s why I let you go. I’m still sure 
you’ll hang. That’s why I’m ready to let you loose 
on this hill country again. But if you want me to do 
that, why, you’ve got to hand me the story of your 
ship the Imperial from A to Z. There’s no lies’ll 
serve you. Len Stern and I know enough to check 
you up all the time. You can only get away on the 


298 The Saint of the Speedway 

truth. In return we’ll release you now, right here. 
There’s the hill country back of here, and the Ca¬ 
nadian border beyond. It’s a dog’s chance. You’re 
tough, and maybe you can get through. I don’t know 
and don’t care. It’s a chance of a respite before that 
hanging which is coming your way.” 

McLagan ceased speaking and the sound of Len 
Stem passing outside came in the silence that fol¬ 
lowed. Then Caspar cleared a throat that was dry 
with fierce anxiety. And suspicion lurked behind his 
expressionless eyes. 

“Why d’you need that story? What’s the dirty 
game behind it? When a feller like you gets his 
hands on a man he reckons to have done murder, why, 
for a story, is he ready to hand him a getaway?” 
He shook his head. “The price is right, McLagan. 
But ther’s a snag somewhere. It looks like your case 
is bad. It looks like you’re maybe a bad payer. It 
looks like ther’s things to you you ain’t yearning to 
have around in the light of open court.” 

Again he shook his head. 

But the challenge left McLagan quite unruffled. 
His smile was derisive as his answer came on the 
instant. 

“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “It can look 
just as it pleases you to make it look. I don’t care a 
cent. The only thing is Len’s coming right back. I 
can hear him. And so can you. The ponies, I guess, 
are fixed. Well, we’re starting for Beacon right 
away, or we aren’t. You can please your darn self. 
The price will be paid or not, as you choose. But 
you’ve only five seconds to choose in.” 

, Casper stirred. 

“You swear to get out an’ leave me free?” 


299 


Julian Caspar at Bay 

“On those terms, yes.” 

“Then you can have the yarn.” 

“The simple facts?” 

“Yes—curse you!” 

The malevolent fury in the man’s final curse was 
the epitome of all his pent feeling. McLagan was his 
one object of insane hate. And he was driven to bend 
before his will. He knew the desperate nature of the 
thing he was doing. He knew the risk of it all. The 
evidence he was about to put into* his hated enemy’s 
hand. But he knew, being the man he was, and with 
shackles on his wrists, that it was his only chance. So 
he yielded. But his yielding had only come with his 
recognition that the shackles holding him were the 
official shackles of the United States Government, and 
must clearly have been put into the hands of these 
men for their present purpose. 

Julian Caspar was still sitting on his piled blankets. 
McLagan was still leaning against the doorway with 
his gun in evidence. Len Stern was propped, as be¬ 
fore, where the cotton hung loose from the window 
framing. The monotonous tones of the prisoner’s 
voice broke up the stillness of the atmosphere of the 
place. He had been talking for some time. He was 
not looking at his captors. His dead eyes were on the 
log wall in front of him. And his gaze suggested a 
mind reviewing in sequence a series of pictures which 
gave him not a moment of mental unease. He was 
transferring his stock at a price. And only was it the 
payment of the price for which he was concerned. 

“It was too easy,” he was saying, with a sound that 
was perhaps a mirthless imitation of a laugh. “It’s 
queer ther’s such darn fools running around loose. 


300 The Saint of the Speedway 

That boy, Carver, and Stern, here, surely needed wet- 
nurses before they set out to handle a bunch of dust 
the way they thought. Why should I stand around 
on a lousy commission with the stuff lying safe under 
my hatches, and with only a bum crew of Chinks, an' 
a few poor whites to deal with.” He shook his head. 
“Not on your life. I’d have stood for equal share. 
I’d have let that boy live for some other guy to do 
up later. But he guessed to hand me commission. 
Me, who was the only thing that could help him 
handle his stuff right. No. My mind was fixed the 
moment Stern an’ me signed our charter. There was 
haf a million of stuff to trade, and I guessed I knew 
who would do the trading.” 

He paused and shifted his position. His audience 
remained unmoving but watchful. 

“I got him in the doldrums south of the line,” he 
went on, after a moment. “It didn’t need argument 
how best I could fix him. He was soft in his fool¬ 
ishness. It was in the night. There wasn’t any dam 
moon, and a thin cloud hid up the stars. There 
wasn’t a breath of wind, an’ it was as hot as hell. I 
guessed a walk along the deck would be better than 
blankets on a night like that, and he guessed that way, 
too. Then I’d got another thought back of my head. 
You see, I knew the monkey tricks of the sailorman, 
whether Chink or white. In the doldrums, without a 
breeze, you can never keep a watch on deck out of 
their blankets at night. The midnight watch came on 
deck an’ the others went to quarters. Then us two 
folks started pacing the main deck for cool. You see, 
the moment the watch had changed they’d oozed off 
for’ard and rolled into their blankets, and we were left 
to the main deck where even the man at the wheel 


301 


Julian Caspar at Bay 

couldn’t guess the thing happening. There was only 
the officer of the watch. I waited for him. He went 
below to get a drink, I guess. That was my time. 
That boy and me were away up near the winch. I 
jerked that long knife of mine in through the neck of 
his thick peacoat. It went deep and far, and he 
dropped in my arms without a sound. It’s the Indian 
trick of skewering a man’s heart, and comes easy with 
practice. I heaved him to the rail and dropped him 
over, and the thing was done without a mess, and in 
a few seconds. Then I waited for the officer. I 
treated him as he came out from the cabin, and got 
rid of him, too. It was not because he knew a thing. 
But I looked to make an atmosphere for those who 
were to learn things later. Then I dealt with the boy 
at the wheel, and left the ship with a loose helm. 
After that I went below and waited. The thing I 
guessed happened. The ship yawed and was set flat 
aback. And in awhile I was shouted for by one of 
the watch. I cleared from my bunk and raised hell 
till he’d told me the thing that had happened. It was 
a play game to me. It was an elegant show. I mus¬ 
tered the watches, and looked for the absentees. I 
located the first officer was missing. Then I got wise 
that Carver, too, was nowhere around. Then I raised 
every sort of hell a feller born to the sea knows about. 
And in the end had the second officer log a scrap. A 
‘hold-up’ by one of the Chink crew—identity un¬ 
guessed. And it worked smooth and easy, as I knew 
it would when dealing with a bunch of sailor toughs 
without sense between ’em the size of a buck louse. 
Maybe it was—too easy.” 

There was a moment of reflective silence before the 
man spoke again. McLagan made no attempt to urge 


302 The Saint of the Speedway 

him. A queer nauseation affected him deeply as he 
watched the man, who, now that he had embarked upon 
his story, seemed rather to enjoy dwelling on the hid¬ 
eous incidents of it. Len Stern was less calm. All the 
youth in him was aflame. The cold satisfaction of 
Caspar in telling of the slaughter of his partner drove 
him almost beyond his powers of restraint. 

“The game was only at its start,” Caspar went on 
at last. “I’d got it clear cut in my mind. We were 
coming up through the big islands, and at first I 
thought of running for the China coast. But it didn’t 
take long to show me it was liable to be a bad move 
with twelve Chinks aboard out of a crew of eighteen. 
I changed plan right away. I’d run for Alaska where 
gold is found. I’d deal with the crew one way or 
another, and abandon ship, and run the gold inland 
by motor launch where its presence wouldn’t set a 
flutter stirring. From the start luck ran with me, but 
it was only later I was to learn how well it was run¬ 
ning.” 

“My next move was obvious to a feller looking to 
lose himself and his bunch,” he continued, with his 
queer eyes lighting unwholesomely. “I was my own 
wireless man. It was mostly a hobby with me, and 
•I’d set it up myself. I got busy and sent out a dis¬ 
tress signal. I sent it out telling the darn fools who 
picked it up I was foundering a thousand miles from 
where I happened to be sailing. I kept sending it to 
make sure, and I guess it didn’t let me down. As a 
result my craft was fathoms deep in the South Pa¬ 
cific. That left me free with leisure to fix the crew 
when, and the way, I wanted ’em.” 

He drew a deep breath and once he raised his eyes 


Julian Caspar at Bay 303 

derisively to the frowning dark face of Len Stern. 
Then he went on at once. 

“I wanted that crew for awhile. We’d a mighty 
big piece of sailing to do before I put the rest of my 
plan into operation. It’s queer, now I think of it, how 
my luck stood by. We steered E.N.E. after we’d 
cleared the islands. And it came on to blow hard. 
But it was a fair breeze, dead on our quarter, and I 
carried on every stitch of canvas we could spread. 
There were times when those darn Chinks groused. 
They came aft an’ once looked ugly. But I didn’t 
let go. No. I needed ’em yet. The only feller I 
didn’t need was the second officer. Well, I took coun¬ 
cil with the Chink steward I carried. He was a boy 
who knew me good, and who’d worked for me since 
ever I’d held a master’s ticket. He was handy. I 
guess he was quicker with a knife than any yeller 
mongrel I’ve ever seen. Well, it was blowing hard 
and a dead black night, and when morning came and 
the wind eased there was a dead officer overboard and 
only the boy who acted as third and me to run the 
ship. And so we came along up towards the fifties, 
where we ran into elegant fair weather like spring, 
for all it was dead winter. I guess the Pacific’s well 
named. 

“Then the thing that made me feel real good—at 
first—happened. It happened at change of watch mid¬ 
day. The bunch were waiting amidships to take over, 
standing around smoking and chewing like the lousy 
crowd they were. The sun was beating down fine on 
the litter of lumber stacked on the deck. I was on 
the poop deck watching those boys and guessing about 
things. And in the midst of it I saw them boys take 


304 The Saint of the Speedway 

a hunch to themselves peeking down the deck. I 
looked too. An’ then—Say, you’ve seen it, Mc- 
Lagan. Yes. It was there. Right at the spot where 
I jerked my knife under his collarbone. It was there 
just as crazy a thing as I ever see. But it was there, 
and stayed there, just as long as the sun shone. I 
wanted to laff. Then I didn’t. Then I thought hard 
an’ waited, and pretended I hadn’t seen. 

“It was two days later the play began,” he went on, 
his manner becoming harsher. “They came aft. The 
whole darn bunch. An’ I kind of knew the thing 
coming. I was ready for ’em. I saw my whole play 
in a jump. That queer thing had been there each 
day, an’ all the time the sun shone. Oh, it made me 
sick, their fool slobber. But I listened. You see, we 
were near to the coast, and the weather was elegant 
for my plans. So I listened. The darn ship was 
haunted. That was their stuff. They were plumb 
scared, the whole bunch, except three cold-blooded 
Chinks who’d the nerve of the whole flock. I listened 
and I agreed. I told ’em I’d seen it too, and was just 
as badly scared as they were. But I wasn’t a darn 
fool and wasn’t yearning for an open boat for the 
sake of a crazy shadow. Then I pretended savage 
and told ’em to get right back to their sennit an’ holy¬ 
stone, or I’d dose their darn guts with lead. It acted 
the way I wanted. They tried to rush me. I had 
Jim Shan, the steward, with me. A sign from him, 
and the other three Chinks lent a hand. They turned 
on the bunch. And I unloosed. There was a tough 
scrap, but we beat ’em back. When they were rightly 
cowed I handed ’em the thing I’d do. They could 
have one of the launches. It was a hundred miles to 
Seattle. They could have the vittles and get. They 


305 


Julian Caspar at Bay 

went. And the darn third officer went with ’em. And 
next day it blew a howling winter gale. I guess they’d 
as much chance as cordite in hell. I was left with 
four Chinks which included Jim Shan. 

“We had a mighty tough time for two days. But 
we were quit of that shadow. There were four of us 
to handle wheel and sail, and one was a cook. But 
the boys had shortened down before they went and 
we had to chance the rest. Anyway we got through. 
And after that the weather set dead fair and we 
crawled up the coast. But the shadow came again 
and somehow it worried me. Then I played my last 
trump. I told Jim Shan the story of the gold, and 
promised him equal shares with his friends if we got 
it through to the coast. Say, those boys. Ever see 
a Chink with the yearning for gold looking out of his 
queer, snake eyes ? It’s not good to look at. 

“Do you need more?” Julian Caspar shook his 
head as his queer eyes searched the implacable face of 
McLagan. “But of course you do. You’re the sort 
to want every ounce of your pound. Well, you can 
have it. I’m looking for that dog’s chance for more 
than one reason.” 

He passed his manacled hands up to his shock of 
hair, and tried to run them back over it. Then they 
dropped again to his lap. 

“The rest was easy—in a way. I set right in to 
work to change the vessel’s name, and it took me 
guessing hard. I had to think like hell not to leave a 
clue. Those boys helped me, and Jim Shan was the 
neatest hand with paint and a brush I ever located. 
He did it all right. And the vessel was sort of re¬ 
born the Limpet , an’ the name amused me. But it 
was the waiting around and watching those Chinks. 


306 The Saint of the Speedway 

Say, ever waited around with a bunch more used to 
knives than Bibles ? Gee! Then there was that 
cursed shadow. Say, I’ve got nerve. But there’s 
things to break the best nerve if you only locate ’em. 
It was that shadow. There wasn’t a day I didn’t sit 
at that cabin table, with the alleyway facing me, that 
I couldn’t see that shadow traipsing—traipsing— 
Psha! I could have shut the door. I could have sat 
elsewhere. But someway I hadn’t the grit to do it. 
No, I had to keep an eye on that shadow all the time 
—and on those Chinks.” 

“Well, it don’t signify now. I’d got it all fixed 
ready. We were making our getaway that night. 
Then I was eating my food. I’d been sitting watch¬ 
ing the crazy antics of the shadow in the sun, and 
sudden I got sick in the pit of the stomach. I quit. 
I quit right there and hailed the Chinks. Well, those 
boys lasted long enough to crowd on every stitch of 
canvas. They lasted long enough to launch the motor 
with the gold and vittles stowed. They lasted long 
enough to clear the vessel’s side and head for the coast. 
Then they died quick. All four got lead poisoning, 
and I dropped ’em over the side. It was them or me, 
and I knew it. I wasn’t yearning. So I pumped ’em 
plumb up to the plimsol full of lead, and set ’em where 
their knives couldn’t reach me. Then-” 

“You ran for the mouth of the Lias,” McLagan 
broke in. “You ran in and cached your stuff in a cave 
you didn’t reckon folks ’ud locate. And stowed your 
launch where you didn’t see anything but sea-fowl 
nosing.” 

“You swine!” 

McLagan nodded. 

“That’s all right,” he said, straightening himself up. 



307 


Julian Caspar at Bay 

“Don’t worry for compliments. That’s not in the 
story. Yes. I’ve got your gold. There’ll be embargo 
on your credit at Victor Burns’ Bank. And the launch 
is away up on the Alsek River where its use in my oil 
workings’ll keep it in shape. But you’ve got your 
dog’s chance. I promised that, and you’re going to 
get it. It’s a hell of a poor-bred dog’s chance. Loose 
those irons, Len. I’ll hold him covered so there’s no 
monkeying. He reckons he’d like to translate his 
opinion of me into something more active. But he 
won’t. Loose him-” 

“But—Say, you’re not going-?” 

Len Stern, with his whole mind and body seething 
with the horror of the thing he had listened to, stared 
at the engineer incredulously. 

“Loose him? What-*?” 

McLagan nodded. 

“Yes. Loose him, boy. I promised him that. I 
promised him a run for it. It was the price of his 
yarn. Leave it that way, boy. Loose him, and let’s 
get out into God’s pure air. This place is foul with 
the stench of his rotten soul.” 

They were out in the open where the air was pure, 
and the full daylight was pleasant to contemplate after 
the contaminated atmosphere of Julian Caspar’s quar¬ 
ters. The latter was somewhere behind them, free to 
undertake anything his evil mind prompted. But Mc¬ 
Lagan felt no concern as they moved down the slope 
to the mouth of the Creek debouching on the broad 
waters of the Lias River. It was left to the more hot¬ 
headed Len Stern to concern himself. 

“I don’t get it, McLagan,” he said urgently. 
“You’ve let that rotten murderer free for the sake 






308 The Saint of the Speedway 

of his darn story. You’ve let him free after mur¬ 
dering poor Jim. Claire’s brother! The brother of 
the gal you’re to marry this fall! It’s wrong. It’s 
crazy. He-” 

He broke off to gaze back up the hill at the shack 
that was still in full view. 

“I can’t stand for it, Mac!” he went on hotly, a 
moment later. “We came here that that boy should 
swing for the thing he’s done. You said that. 
You-” 

“He will swing, Len. He’ll swing within twenty- 
four hours.” 

McLagan’s tone was cold. His manner was inflexi¬ 
ble. And somehow the other remained silent. 

They rounded a broad bluff of woodland that 
mounted the hillside, and all view of Caspar’s hut 
was obscured. Now the great waters of the Lias 
came into view. Its wide valley opened out in a 
splendid picture of forest, and hill, and the smiling 
sheen of the river’s waters. 

“You beat me, Mac,” Len went on, in a tone of 
puzzlement. All his protest had died out of his man¬ 
ner. “How? He’ll hang in twenty-four hours? Will 
you tell me?” 

McLagan’s pace increased. He was gazing away 
down at the great river. And suddenly a hot light 
filled his eyes, and left them frowning. 

“Len, boy, cut it all out!” he cried irritably. “What 
sort of white-livered bunch of craziness do you take 
me for? What have I been working for these weeks, 
an’ months, but to 1 hand that boy his med’cine ? Say, 
if you’d been here months back and seen that poor 
mother woman’s grief, that poor girl’s grief, you’d 
have known some of the thing I feel. Those two 




309 


Julian Caspar at Bay 

gentle souls are mine. One of ’em’s going to be my 
wife, to live with me through the years of our lives. 
That boy’s going to die the only right way for a 
feller of his sort. He’s going to hang—just as sure 
as God.” 

He laughed mirthlessly. 

“I can’t bring that poor feller Jim back alive,” he 
went on. “But I can see that feller hangs. Why, I 
owe it him anyway for myself. If he lived he’d get 
me one way or another. No. He’s going to swing, 
as I say.” 

The landing on the river was in full view when Len 
put his sharp question. Sasa Mannik was down there 
with his canoe waiting watchfully his boss’s return. 

McLagan turned. His face was unsmiling. 

“That’s not for you—yet. Someday you may learn 
things. Meanwhile get a holt on this. You’ve my 
word of honour as a man the thing’s as I say.” 

Stern nodded. 

“That surely goes, Mac,” he said. “But tell me. 
You see, you’ve got me badly guessing. Why for 
did you send me out of that shack to—fix his ponies ? 
We’re on the river. We’re travelling by water.” 

McLagan laughed. 

“That’s easy, boy. The talk of ponies was bluff. 
I didn’t have a notion of running that feller into 
Beacon. Not a notion from the start. You see, I 
didn’t let you know the thing in my mind because of 
the questions I didn’t feel like answering. No. I left 
you thinking he was passing right into Beacon. I sent 
you out to fix his ponies because I had to make a talk. 
And I didn’t want a chance of you getting hot with 
the things I said and queering the game. I had to get 
that boy's yarn. You see, the thing I reckoned to fix 


310 The Saint of the Speedway 

was justice, not revenge. Well, it would have been 
justice handing him over to Goodchurch. But I 
didn’t fancy that. The law’s queer and slow. It 
would have been a worry to Jim’s mother, to Claire. 
To all of us. It would have stirred up memories for 
those women folk, and would have hurt ’em. So I 
looked for better, quicker, surer means. But I’ve a 
queer sort of conscience that wouldn’t be satisfied with 
circumstantial evidence. I had to hear of the thing 
he’d done out of his own mouth. So I offered him a 
run for freedom to hand me his yarn. It was wiser 
than it looked. You see, I knew the man. He knew 
the thing he’d done. And he guessed what it would 
mean going on to Fairbanks. Given a run, he’s con¬ 
fident of making his getaway. His life’s more pre¬ 
cious to him than the chance he takes handing out his 
story. I felt that—knowing him. My promise to him 
was a run for freedom, and he guessed it was good 
enough. You see, he didn’t know the thing I know. 
Now the thing’s sheer justice. He’s condemned him¬ 
self. And the thought of his hanging leaves me with¬ 
out a qualm or—scruple. Let’s leave it that way, boy. 
I’ve given my word to you. Now we’re going to 
make my home place to hand over your gold to you, 
and to close up my shanty. Then for Beacon.” 

“Shall I learn for sure—when it’s done?” 

McLagan smiled gently as they paced down the hill. 
He understood the other’s feelings. He realised how 
hard, without further explanation, it must be for this 
man, who had been absent so long from the country, 
to accept his assurance. So he laid a reassuring hand 
upon his arm. 

“Yes, Len. And,”, he added, “believe me, his hang¬ 
ing’s as inevitable as that the sun’ll rise to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


The Quitting 

A RE you satisfied, Len? Does it make you feel 
good?” 

McLagan was observing the dark, mobile features 
of the younger man. They were alight with the look 
he knew so well. It was the expression he had seen 
time and again in those men of Beacon whose whole 
horizon was bounded by gold and all it meant in their 
lives. It was a similar expression to that which had 
played in Len Stern’s features at that time when his 
strong fingers had raked through the heaping gold dust 
spread out before him at the far-off camp on the Aus¬ 
tralian coast. 

McLagan was more than interested. For the man 
was gazing upon the goodly pile of smallish canvas 
bags lying on the earthen floor against the log wall of 
the hut overlooking the mouth of the A'lsek River. At 
that moment humanity was uppermost in the engineer. 
A goodly satisfaction was stirring in his heart. And 
his manner had lost much of that roughness which 
was so characteristic of him. 

Len nodded, his eyes remaining fascinated by the 
thing they were gazing upon. 

“That don’t begin to say the thing I feel,” he said 
awkwardly. He raised a strong, sunburnt hand and 
passed it back over his forehead. Then he laughed. 
It was a short, jerky laugh that was an expression of 
some feeling he had no words for. “Do you know 
311 


312 The Saint of the Speedway 

how a shipwrecked feller ’ud feel when his feet find 
solid earth again?” He shook his head. “That’s how 
those darn bags of dust make me feel. That, an’ 
something else. Yes, I feel I want to say all sorts of 
stuff how I think of you. But I can’t.” 

McLagan brushed aside the man’s desire to express 
his gratitude. 

“But you weren’t—shipwrecked?” he said quickly. 

The other’s reply came with a laugh. 

“It cost me all but my last thousand dollars to an¬ 
swer that message you sent out, and—get around.” 

“But you were on a big strike? You and poor 
Jim?” 

“Sure. The biggest in the world—on a fever-racked 
coast that I don’t guess I’ll ever get near to again. 
The fever got me. I only got away by the scruff of 
my neck. And the stuff I took out did little more 
than satisfy the dope merchants of Perth who did their 
best for me. I guess I was shipwrecked both ways. 
Physical and financial. Man, you’ve done an almighty 
glad thing.” 

McLagan sat himself on the cabin trunk just behind 
him, and Len Stern flung himself into the chair which 
usually stood against the table where McLagan was 
accustomed to work. The small wood stove, radiating 
a pleasant warmth in the chill of the late summer air, 
stood between them. And Len Stern mechanically held 
out the palms of his hands to it. 

There was physical weariness in him. It was the 
same with the hard-driving engineer. The voiceless 
waste of desolate muskeg with its surface of shaking 
tundra lay far behind them now. So with the weari¬ 
some portage to the Alsek River meandering through 
its coal-laden, oil-soaked territory of hills. The gate- 


313 


The Quitting 

way to the ocean had been reached and passed only 
that morning. And now they had gained the shelter of 
McLagan’s home overlooking the bay, ready for the 
last stage of that effort which had been crowded into 
days that should have been weeks. 

It had all been a whirlwind rush from the moment 
of Stern’s landing until this return to McLagan’s 
home. Stern was the least weary of the two. But then 
he and Sasa Mannik had had the blessed break of a 
day’s complete rest up at McLagan’s oil camp, while the 
engineer endured an added gruelling in the work that 
was his. He had spent the time with Peter Loby in 
completing preparations for the time when the men of 
finance behind him should arrive to set the seal of their 
approval upon his achievements. It had meant a swift 
change of effort for him from that which had been an 
expression of a man’s deepest emotions to the sheerly 
mental aspect of those affairs which represented the 
material side of his life. 

They had eaten the midday meal with which Sasa 
Mannik’s indifferent skill had provided them. And the 
whole place was a-litter with books, charts, papers, and 
clothing, hopelessly mixed up with the utensils of the 
meal of which they had just partaken. They were in 
the midst of the preparations for McLagan’s final quit¬ 
tance, which was to take place that day. It was a por¬ 
tentous operation regarded without optimism by the 
engineer. And Len Stern, while ready and willing, 
found himself of little service. 

McLagan lit one of his long, lean cigars, glad enough 
to abandon his labours for a few minutes. Stern lit 
and drearily sucked his charred old briar. The con¬ 
templation of those bags of gold dust, that never in his 
most fantastic dreams had he hoped to see again, had 


314 The Saint of the Speedway 

warmed his heart and eased the strain he had laboured 
under. 

It was all very amazing, and McLagan himself was 
the most amazing thing of it all. It was all mystifying, 
too. And as he sat luxuriating in the reek of his pipe 
the man from Australia found himself marvelling at 
the mystery in the midst of which he had found him¬ 
self so suddenly plunged. 

He knew now that McLagan had been responsible 
for the message Goodchurch had sent out. Even its 
enticing wording. At the time he had read it in the 
local news sheet in Perth he had not seriously consid¬ 
ered it beyond the reply he must make. Then had 
come his arrival at the coast on the tubby mail boat 
on its way to Seward. Then his meeting with Mc¬ 
Lagan, and his instant whirling off on a breathless rush 
that was only just about to terminate. He had been 
asked very little and told less. McLagan had relied 
on visual rather than verbal demonstration. He had 
seen the Imperial again after believing the vessel to 
be fathoms deep at the bottom of the ocean. He had 
gazed upon some weird, supernatural demonstration 
upon her deck. He had been hurried off to help in 
the capture of the man who had murdered his partner, 
and robbed them of the fruits of their labours. The 
capture had been achieved and a confession extracted. 
Then he had been called upon to agree to the mur¬ 
derer’s release. True, he had the assurance of Mc¬ 
Lagan that the murderer would not, could not escape. 
But- 

And now he was sitting in McLagan’s home gazing 
on the wealth of gold dust that he and poor Jim 
Carver had washed out on the fever-laden coast of 
Australia. It had come back to him. And McLagan 



315 


The Quitting 

was the man who had recovered it. How? How? 
How had it all been achieved? How had McLagan 
discovered in the Limpet of Boston the foul tragedy 
of his friend’s death, and recovered for him the gold 
that had been stolen ? The mystery of it all; McLagan’s 
refusal to enlighten him; these things were utterly con¬ 
founding. In his own phraseology he felt the whole 
thing was just “one darn mystery after another” and he 
wanted to fling up his hands in complete helpless¬ 
ness. 

But there was no outward expression of these feel¬ 
ings. He sat gladly regarding that small, comforting 
pile of wealth which McLagan had told him was his. 

“I’m glad you’ve told me that, Len.” McLagan’s 
smile was almost gentle. “We haven’t told much, have 
we?” 

“No. And sometimes I feel it ’ud be good to tell— 
things.” 

Len Stern’s eyes came back from the pile of gold. 
It almost seemed as though McLagan had broached 
something of a deeper interest for him. 

“Maybe it would. Well, ther’s Claire and her 
mother’ll be yearning.” McLagan laughed. “And I’ll 
be there, too.” 

“Which is just another way of saying you haven’t 
a thing you’re going to tell.” 

Len grinned into the other’s face and shook some 
juice out of his pipe stem on to the stove. 

“It doesn’t mean just that, boy,” McLagan said. 

“No?” 

Len waited. Then he went on. 

“See, McLagan, you’ve done a swell thing. Sure 
I don’t want to say a thing to hurt. You’ve left me 
guessing, an’ I’m content to go right on guessing if it 


316 The Saint of the Speedway 

suits you. You see, I’m just thankful. But maybe 
you won’t mind saying ‘Why/ if you object to 'How/ 
The only thing that finds me worrying is leaving that 
swine Caspar free.” 

McLagan removed the cigar from his strong mouth. 
He rolled it between his fingers which seemed to crush 
it unnecessarily. He shook his head. 

“I’m not yearning to tell ‘why’ any more than 
‘how,’ ” he said, with a return to his rougher manner. 
“It wouldn’t hurt a thing telling it, except for the 
laugh it’s liable to raise. You see, boy, I’ve a head full 
of notions. Some of ’em some folks might reckon sort 
of crazy. But they aren’t. They’re just a throw back 
to something that’s in us all. The only thing is I’ve 
given way to ’em, and they’ve got so that I have to 
hand ’em best. One time I felt the only thing in life 
was to make good. I’m older since then. I still guess 
that making good needs to be done, but I get tired beat¬ 
ing the other feller. It kind of seems waste of effort, 
unless the other feller needs beating. I’m glad for poor 
old Jim, who’s Claire’s brother, to be able to hand you 
back his dough. Then it’ll make things better for you. 
You two boys were swell triers taking a Chink yarn 
for gospel. Good luck, boy, anyway. Handle that 
stuff right when you get it into Beacon.” 

“I’ll do the best I know, Mac. Say—That oil play 
of yours ? It looks like beating every other feller. It’s 
big. It’s big for Beacon, an’ the folks around.” 

McLagan’s smile deepened. 

“Sure,” he said simply. “It means so much I can’t 
just see it all. This’ll be a swell country after awhile. 
It’ll get oil-crazy when I let my story go.” 

“They don’t know yet?” 

McLagan shook his head. 


317 


The Quitting 

“They will when I get in this time. And I want it 
that way. You know this country's got right into my 
guts. I want to set the decent citizens lying around it 
whooping with the things that make life easy, and 
pass 'em a time that won’t leave ’em yearning to muss 
themselves with the dirt lying back of human nature. 
What’ll you do? Quit for the sun places?” He 
glanced down at the gold bags significantly. “With 
that bunch a wise guy don’t need to worry beyond this 
coast.” 

“That’s so.” 

Len was thoughtfully regarding his treasure. He 
looked up with a grin. 

“Maybe I’ll do what I know to get into your proposi¬ 
tion.” 

McLagan laughed. 

“You’ll need to do it on the jump. In a month ther’ 
won’t be money enough in the world to buy our stock. 
You haven’t seen a circumstance of what’s to come 
later. Gee! I must get on with all this truck.” 

McLagan rose with a sigh of real weariness. He 
flung open the trunk on which he had been sitting, and 
passed over to a pile of folded suits. He stood for a 
moment contemplating them. They were clothes he 
had never worn since he came to the coast. He picked 
some of them up, and came back to the trunk. Len 
rose to aid him. He moved over to pass him the rest 
of the piled clothes. He picked up some of them, and 
revealed a folded white garment underneath. It caught 
and held his attention. It was voluminous. And, at 
first glance, appeared to be some sort of bath robe, 
or dressing gown. But the top fold of it had three 
cut holes in it, which looked like the eye and mouth 
holes of a mask. 


318 The Saint of the Speedway 

McLagan came to his side and Len heard a deep- 
throated chuckle. 

“Guessing, boy?” the engineer said quietly. Then 
he added: “I’d forgot that, sure.” 

Then he reached down and picked it up. He let it 
drop to its full length, and held it out by its arms. 
Len deposited his garments and gazed at it, grinning. 

“Some suit,” he said. 

McLagan nodded. 

“Sure,” he said. And surveyed the conical, visored 
hood hanging down, and the many rust stains that be¬ 
smirched its otherwise immaculate surface. 

Then he, very deliberately, refolded it and looked 
squarely into his companion’s eyes. 

“Makes you want to laff, Len, eh ?” he said. “Don’t 
you do it, boy. Ther’s no feller needs to laff who sees 
that.” 

Then his own eyes became less serious, and a twinkle 
of humour looked out of them. 

“It’s just one of my notions. I designed it myself. 
And I keep it by me to remind me. I guess it won’t 
mean a thing to you, ever. Maybe it’ll just add an¬ 
other guess to the things worrying you now. Set it 
down a bath gown which you wear when you’re either 
clean or want to be clean. But it’s another meaning, 
another significance. It’s a symbol. That darn white 
gown tells me every time I look at it that human na¬ 
ture can’t ever be run right by academic theory or 
sentimental slobber. The feller that guesses to per¬ 
suade human nature by argument is only one degree 
better than the boy in the bughouse. The notion that 
human nature is predominantly good is plumb busted. 
It hands me a story of the unutterable weakness of the 
modern methods by which human nature is trying to 


319 


The Quitting 

govern itself, and warns me that the only thing to 
bring about better conditions is to scare it plumb to 
death first, and beat it over the head with a club after. 
I didn’t mean you to see that thing, boy. But you 
have seen it and I don’t figure it matters any—now. 
Still if you reckon you’re obliged to me, why, just 
forget you’ve seen it. Let’s pack up all this darn 
junk. Gee! Ther’s a hell of a lot of it.” 

Departure from the bay was delayed longer than 
McLagan had designed. It was delayed until the fol¬ 
lowing morning by reason of one of those fierce, late- 
summer storms of tornado-like force, which at times 
descended upon the tattered coast. 

It started with a rush of wind sweeping down off the 
hills. It came with the force of a hurricane, and set 
the hut creaking and groaning under its spasmodic 
pressure. For half an hour it battled furiously, shriek¬ 
ing, howling, and crashing its way through forest, and 
valley, and over hill-top. And then, as suddenly as it 
had leapt, it abated into an ominous calm. 

The respite was illusive. It was sufficiently long for 
the men in the hut to interpret the conditions. The 
sudden darkening of the whole of the western sky was 
sufficiently indicative. Then the real storm broke. It 
broke in from the ocean with the rising tide, driving 
in direct opposition to the land wind. An electric 
storm, it came with sub-tropical intensity, and a fury 
of wind. The play of lightning was blinding; the 
thunderous detonations were merged into an incessant 
roar; and the suddenly opened heavens poured a deluge 
of rain upon a darkened world. 

The storm raged for hours. It raged far into the 
night. And deep under the fury of it all the voice of 


320 The Saint of the Speedway 

the sea came up from below like an angry roar of a 
monster lashed and goaded to savage anger. It 
boomed, it thundered, its echoes playing from cliff to 
cliff, magnified and terrifying. 

Clad in an oilskin, at the height of the storm, Mc- 
Lagan sought the open. He stood out on the plateau, 
and instantly his great body seemed to become the 
centre of elemental attack. But he gave no heed. He 
forced his way in the blinding rain as near to the 
precipitous edge of the cliff as he dared approach it. 
Then he stood there swaying to the buffets of the 
storm while he strove to penetrate the grey pall with 
which the rain enveloped the world below him. It 
was useless. And so, at last, he returned to shelter, 
and the exercise of such patience as he could command. 

Dawn saw a complete reversal, a complete trans¬ 
formation. A keen crisp northwest wind had set in, 
and the furies of the night had been wholly swept 
away. The sun rose glorious in a cloud-flecked sky, 
and the world of the coast was as nearly smiling as 
Nature ever permitted. 

But the smile of Nature meant nothing to the men 
who, ready to set out on their run into Beacon, stood 
gazing down upon the bay. The wreck of the Im¬ 
perial was gone. Completely, utterly vanished. A 
few baulks of timber had been flung high up on the 
rocks at the foot of the southern cliff, but of the wreck, 
in its familiar form, not a sign was to be discovered. 
The ebb of the tide was at its lowest. The rocks on 
which she had lain were bare. The vessel had gone 
as she had come, on the race of the tide. But with the 
difference that her shattered hull had been carried off 
piecemeal by the victorious adversary she had defied 
so long. 


321 


The Quitting 

McLagan was the first to turn away. Sasa Mannik 
was standing by the ponies hitched to the laden buck- 
board. He moved over to him and in silence climbed 
into the driving seat of the ramshackle vehicle. Then 
he called to Len Stern, who was still gazing down 
upon the cemetery of that poor restless shadow of the 
man who had been his friend and partner. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 

R EBECCA CARVER was primly seated at one 
end of a well-upholstered couch. Her slight 
form was very erect, very much supported in garments 
that seemed somehow strange to it. Her dark eyes 
were steadily fixed upon the work in her hands, and the 
expression of them was carefully concealed. Her 
greying hair was neatly dressed for the occasion, and 
she looked to be holding herself schooled for the mo¬ 
ment, and the unaccustomed surroundings in which 
she found herself. 

It was a seat she rarely enough occupied. But then 
the parlour of her frame home had no appeal for her. 
She somehow felt she belonged to other spheres, to 
another life than that to which the adventurous genius 
of her daughter Claire had so suddenly elevated her. 
Still, she did her best staunchly enough for all there 
were times when she wondered, times when she had 
been almost terrified at the thought of the crash in 
their fortunes which must inevitably come. But per¬ 
haps the greatest strain of all was her thought for 
Claire herself, her dread for her moral undoing. Hers 
was the mother’s lot when the reins pass from her 
hands, and advancing years bring the slow decay of 
her authority. 

Her black silk gown left her feeling wholly self- 
322 


The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 323 

conscious. Never in her hard-lived life had she pos¬ 
sessed anything quite so splendid. And somehow the 
rustle of it was pleasant to her simple mind, and she 
hoped fervently that a prolonged sitting would not 
completely “muss” it. A silk workbag was beside 
her on the couch, and her hard-worn hands were 
busily plying knitting-needles whose homely click af¬ 
forded her no small measure of encouragement. 

Len Stern was talking from a highly polished chair 
opposite her. He had been talking for some time, and 
seemed to be addressing her particularly. The play of 
his dark eyes was vividly expressive of the thrilling 
details of the long story he had had to tell to the 
mother of his dead friend, while the two others in 
the room seemed, for the time being, to have no claim 
upon him. 

Ivor McLagan was standing at a window with his 
back turned, labouring under a feeling that his pres¬ 
ence was something of an intrusion upon that which 
should have been sacred to the bereaved mother. But 
he knew he must be there for clear and definite rea¬ 
sons, and so he persisted. Claire was near to him. 
There could be no question of her greed for the story 
she was listening to. Her blue eyes were wide with 
almost painful interest. Her hands, those slender hands 
which were the admiration of all at the Speedway, 
were tightly clasped in her lap. She was leaning 
forward eagerly, and hanging intently upon every word 
the man uttered. 

Len Stern had told all the story of the gold dis¬ 
covery, and of the drear life of that fever-ridden coast. 
He had told of his desperate journey to secure a man 
and a ship to serve their purpose. He had told of the 
great day when the shipment was made, and he bade 


324 The Saint of the Speedway 

farewell to the loyal creature, who was thrilling with 
the thought of all that their wealth would mean to his 
women-folk at home, and had reached the point of 
his narrative where he was standing on the beach 
watching the breaking out of the vessel’s sails as she 
put to sea. 

“It was a great day, ma’am,” he said, with a smile 
that was deeply reminiscent. “You just can’t think the 
greatness of it. That boy, he was good grit. Gold? 
Yes, he wanted that gold, his share. But it was only 
for the folks at home. The mother and the sister he’d 
left behind. His whole thought, ma’am, all the time 
was for you.” 

The mother sniffed violently, and a work-worn hand 
brushed aside a tear that blurred the stitches of her 
knitting. The next moment the click of her needles 
came more rapidly. 

“I got back to work—alone,” Len went on. Then 
he drew a deep sigh which ended in an expletive. 
“Gee! How I worked.” He laughed. “It’s queer 
how hard a boy can work when he’s alone, an’ trying 
to keep from going crazy. That’s how it was with 
me. Why, I must have got out an’ washed a million 
dollars of stuff before it happened. Gold? Why, the 
whole of that river bed was gold from end to end. 
There’s the gold of the world there, an’ one day some 
bunch’ll get around and clear out the fever, and just 
snow the world’s market right under with the stuff. 
But it wasn’t for me—or Jim. That fever hit me 
within two weeks of Jim’s quitting. It came slow, 
it made me sick, and I was wise to it. You see, the 
Chink had told us. Well, it didn’t take me two jumps 
to reckon the thing I must do. I knew I must get out 
right away. I must beat it in that shell of a smack of 


The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 325 

our3 down the coast to Perth, the same as I’d done 
before. I’d just have to get there and wait around for 
Jim to get back. It was a big chance, I was getting 
sicker every hour. But I had to take it. So I loaded 
all the dust I could take, cached the rest, stowed my 
kit, and—drove out to sea.” 

He drew a deep breath as the memory of things 
stirred him. McLagan had turned regarding him. 
Even Claire, who had sat almost immovable, stirred 
restlessly. Then he went on to the accompaniment of 
the click of the mother’s needles. 

“Maybe it saved me. I don’t know. Y’see, the sea 
air’s clean, and likely it helped. Anyway I was full 
of fever and pains, and wanted to lie around all the 
while, but I didn’t. I had to make the course I knew, 
and the will of it all drove me. I can’t reckon even 
now how long it was, or how I ever reached Perth 
right. But I reached it in the end after storm, and 
calm, and sickness. But I’d lost a big bunch of my 
stuff. You see, I had to fight myself as well as the 
weather. I was swamped out and nearly plumb 
wrecked a dozen times. When I did get in I was 
nigher dead than alive, and they set me right into hos¬ 
pital. 

“It was tough. And before they were through with 
me it had cost me most of my stuff. Still I wasn’t 
worried with that, there was plenty more, and, when 
Jim came back and I was feeling good, why, it would 
be easy. Quite easy for all I was scared to death of 
that coast.” 

He passed a hand back over his dark hair. 

“But time went on an’ I never heard a word. And 
then—and then came word of—Jim’s ship. It set me 
nigh crazy. I waited, and thought, and worried. I 


326 The Saint of the Speedway 

never got another word. Then I thought to send you 
folks word. Then I was scared to do it. Ma’am, you 
don’t know the way I felt. Jim gone-” 

“Drowned. Drowned right in mid-ocean.” 

McLagan’s voice broke in harshly, and Len glanced 
round quickly. Claire, too, turned. She looked up, 
a sharp question in her eyes. 

McLagan nodded. 

“It hit you, Len boy, to know Jim was—drowned. 
It hit us folks, too.” 

Len turned again to the mother who was gazing at 
him from behind a mist of tears. 

“Say, ma’am, it hit us all bad, to know Jim was 
drowned with the sinking of that ship in mid-ocean. 
It hurts me now to think of it. An’ God knows the way 
it must hurt you folks. But I didn’t get along to stir 
up bad memories. I came to tell Jim’s mother of the 
wonderful boy Jim was, and make her feel pride in his 
grit, an’ honesty, and—and the hell of a fine partner he 
was to me. He was plumb gold all through. Bright 
shining gold. He’d got just one notion in the world, 
ma’am. It was for his mother and his sister. After 
them came his partner. You know, ma’am, someways 
I feel, and I’d be glad to know you feel it, too, Jim 
came by his death doing one great big act. He’d 
sweated and laboured, and he was carrying home all 
the fruit of the love of his big heart to his—mother. 

Does it make you feel good? Yes, sure it does. I can 

„„„ 

see- 

The mother had flung her knitting aside. Her work- 
worn hands were thrust up covering her tear-stream¬ 
ing eyes. She sprang to her feet and stood sobbing 
for a moment. Then Claire came to her side, and 



The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 327 

with one warm arm flung about the older woman's 
shaking shoulders, she led her from the room. 

Claire and McLagan were walking down the dusty, 
unpaved road in the direction of the city’s main high¬ 
way. Len Stern had already departed to transact his 
business at Victor Burns’ bank. The mother had gone 
back to the work that always claimed her, comforted 
far more than she knew by the revelation of the staunch 
devotion of her dead son. 

Once clear of the house Claire raised her wide ques¬ 
tioning eyes to the face of the man beside her. 

“Why did you jump in while Len was talking?” she 
asked abruptly. “Why did you remind him that Jim 
was—drowned ?” 

McLagan’s reply came on the instant. 

“Because he wasn’t drowned, and—Len knows it.” 

“Murdered?” 

“Sure.” 

“Then why not say it ? Why-” 

“Say, Claire,” McLagan broke in with that rough¬ 
ness she knew so well, “do you think I’d brought Len 
along to tell your Mum that Jim was foully murdered 
and robbed? No. I know it. You know it. We’re 
young and strong, and it’s not going to hurt us, seeing 
poor Jim is dead anyway. But she’s his mother. 
Think, my dear, just think. Len and I fixed it up to 
say that. I jumped, scared he might blurt out the 
truth. Jim’s mother is some one we both love. Right 
deep in her heart now is the swell thought of all that 
boy was trying to do for her. He died doing it. To 
her there’s no picture of a foul murder with the mur¬ 
derer standing over him and robbing him. Don’t you 



328 The Saint of the Speedway 

see? Sure you do. For all her tears I guess we’ve 
left Jim’s mother a mighty happy woman. An’ she’ll 
never be told the thing that really happened.” 

The girl made no reply. Somehow the man’s 
harshly spoken rebuke thrilled her as no word of his 
had ever thrilled her before. Her love for him rose 
to something like worship as she regarded his plain 
face and thought of the world of kindly sympathy 
lying behind it. Her next words were almost humble. 

“And the murderer ?” 

“Is dead. Hanged by the neck, and—dead.” 

The intensity, the biting ruthlessness of the man’s 
tone, was in flat contradiction of his recent mood. 

“Then what you thought—what you hoped of Len’s 
coming—proved out?” 

“Surely.” 

“Does Len know? Did he—help?” 

“Len has my assurance. That’s all.” 

“Will I ever know the whole thing—you know?” 

McLagan smiled upon the dingy habitations about 
him. 

“Maybe some* day,” he said. “But—not right now. 
It’s a bad story.” 

They had turned out of the side road, and on to the 
sidewalk of the main thoroughfare. It was still within 
the business hours of the place, and as Claire gazed 
about her a certain unusual movement was observable 
among the people. She drew a deep sigh. 

“Sometimes I think it awful in me,” she said, a 
little desperately. “He’s dead. Hanged. The man 
who murdered Jim. I’m—glad. Yes,” she went on 
a little defiantly, “I’m glad. And Jim’s gold?” 

“Recovered—most of it. And passed to the feller 
it rightly belongs. Len Stern. That boy needs it. 


The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 329 

You don’t, Claire. Your mother don’t. You’re both 
—my affair.” 

'‘Yes. We don’t need it—anyway.” 

McLagan smiled at the little touch of independence 
in the girl’s words. 

They were approaching the Plaza with its balcony 
and its loungers. He could see the face of Jubilee 
Hurst leaning out gazing in their direction. And he 
knew the thing that was coming. 

Jubilee’s challenge came on the instant of their ap¬ 
proach. It came full of all that irresponsible lightness 
which masked the real seriousness of the man. 

“Ho, Mac!” he cried. “Is it true? Is it real, or 
have I got a bad nightmare ? I’ve turned over a couple 
of times but it’s still the same. I can’t get away from 
the messy sight of crude oil streaming all through the 
streets of Beacon. Is it true? Or are you yearning 
to see us poor folk plumb bug?” 

Claire and McLagan smiled up into eager face. 
They realised the presence of the others on the ver¬ 
anda. There was Abe Cranfield. And Burt Riddell 
was gloomily inquiring as he leant over the rail beside 
his partner. 

“It’s all true.” 

It was Claire who replied. She nodded laughingly. 
And in her eyes was a gladness that illuminated her 
whole countenance. Then she indicated the man be¬ 
side her. 

“You see, Ivor’s got the close habit, and I guess it 
isn’t easy for him to say ‘yes.’ Maybe now I’ve saved 
you getting bug he can hand you the rest.” 

McLagan nodded. 

“I guessed you’d be wise in a half-hour. That’s why 
I chose Doc Finch to hand out the news. He’s better 


330 The Saint of the Speedway 

than a hundred telephones. Yes, boy, it’s all true. 
There's oil enough to float a ship. Get in, if you’ve 
two cents to buy with. Maybe there’s weeks of grace 
while my folks play the market. So get in, or our 
stocks’ll jump sky high. You’ll find it more profitable 
than a hand at Claire’s table.” 

Jubilee eyed the girl. He realised the wonderful 
light shining in her pretty eyes. But it was the sad 
voice of Burt Riddell that answered him. 

“Maybe it’s more profitable. But me for the hand 
at Claire’s table. Say, you ain’t going to rob us of 
that?” 

McLagan laughed outright. 

“When it comes to guessing I’d say you’ve Jubilee 
beat a mile.” 

“What d’you mean?” Jubilee looked from one to 
the other and grinned. “Burt got me beat guessing?” 
He shook his head. “Not on your life, Mac. I didn’t 
have to guess. I—knew. Say, it beats hell. My best 
to you both, Claire. The Speedway’ll be hell without 
you, but—Gee, I must go count my cents. It don’t 
seem right, buying oil with ’em when I’m yearning to 
hand you a swell bouquet. Say, look down the side¬ 
walk. See the folks ? Doc’s sure been busy. Well, so 
long. Will you be around at the Speedway to-night ? 
'Bon/ as we used to say in France,” he cried, as the 
engineer nodded. “It’ll beat Max’s festival to the 
bone. Come on, Burt. Let’s get a look at our cents 
and see how best we can roll Victor to help things 
out.” 

Claire and McLagan passed on, and the sight of the 
engineer caused a commotion and excitement that had 
been unknown in Beacon since the early days of the 
boom. It was as McLagan had said it would be. The 


The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 331 

town was already oil-crazy. The man’s progress was 
something in the nature of a triumphal procession. 
There were smiles, and greeting, and handshakes, al¬ 
most every step of the way, till McLagan felt some¬ 
thing like serious regret that he had utilised the 
rotund doctor as a medium for disseminating his 
news. 

As they came to the bank, McLagan’s patience had 
well-nigh exhausted itself. 

“We’ll get right inside for shelter, kid,” he said in 
desperation. “This popularity makes me sick. This 
darn handwagging with folks I don’t know from a 
bunch of fence posts couldn’t be worse if I was Presi¬ 
dent of the United States. Say-” 

He laughed as he discovered that Victor Burns was 
standing in the doorway of the bank obviously wait¬ 
ing for him to come up. 

They were safe for the moment in Victor’s private 
office. The banker was sitting behind his desk while 
Claire was occupying the most comfortable chair the 
place afforded. McLagan was propped on the corner 
of the desk listening to the thing the banker had to 
tell. 

“I’m glad for you, McLagan,” he said. “I’m glad 
for Beacon. And it didn’t take me two seconds to 
guess my own feelings the moment Doc blew in and 
handed me his story of an oil flood that nearly 
wrecked your camp. I’ve a private bunch of dollars 
that’s going to be changed into your Corporation’s 
stock right away. Yes, boy, I’m glad, but I’m wor¬ 
ried.” 

“How?” 

“How ?” The banker looked from one to the other. 


332 The Saint of the Speedway 

Then he raised a clenched fist and brought it heavily 
down on his desk. A' frown of unusual ill-temper had 
suddenly depressed his pleasant face. “It’s this boy, 
Cy Liskard, a customer of mine, you’ll remember him. 
It’s that guy with the gold I showed you awhile back. 
The feller that you spread out on the Speedway floor 
on the night of the festival. They’ve hanged him, 
they’ve hanged him clean out of hand. It’s these boys, 
the Aurora bunch. And they ticketed him with their 
fancy label with the signature of the Chief Light.” 

He snorted as he sat gazing into McLagan’s face. 
Claire sat up in her chair, a startled look in her eyes 
as she watched the unsmiling face of the man she 
loved. 

’That don’t seem a thing to worry for,” McLagan 
said coldly. “Where did they hang him? What 
for?” 

“Where ? What for ?” The banker shook his head. 
“They hanged him right here just beyond the town 
limits on the lakeside. What for ? I haven’t a notion, 
unless it was a hold-up for his stuff. Here, you don’t 
get me-” 

“It hasn’t been their way to hold a boy up for his 
stuff,” McLagan broke in quickly. “Was he coming 
in with a bunch of dust ?” 

The banker shook his head. He spread out a pair 
of helpless hands. 

“I can’t say a thing,” he declared peevishly. “Here, 
I’ll tell you. Goodchurch came along this morn¬ 
ing; he jumped in on me and I asked him things; 
he said he was guessing as badly as I was. One of 
his men come in and brought him word a feller was 
hanging under the spread of a Western Cedar, and 
was labelled by this precious bunch. Looked like he’d 



The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 333 

been hanging there days. He sent out to investigate 
and found it was this boy from the Lias, who’s been 
toting dust in since last fall. He asked me what I 
knew, and I told him of his credit here. He’s set a 
government ‘hold-up’ on it, and went off cursing these 
Aurora folk in a way I’d hate to repeat before a lady. 
I’m sick, I’m good an’ sick. I’m not worried for the 
boy. He was a sure tough, and I’d say he’s the sort 
to be a deal safer off the earth. But it’s the trade. 
It’s the stuff. He was reckoning to bring more along. 
Say, Mac, does it look good to you? I’ve heard you 
say you’d a hunch for these boys, setting out to clean 
things up. Well? Is this cleaning up? Or is it the 
thing I’ve been scared of right along—a hold-up?” 

McLagan shook his head. His face was mask-like 
in its seriousness. Claire, watching him, felt at that 
moment she would have given much to read the thing 
passing behind it. 

“You can’t rightly tell, Victor,” he said. “But I 
wouldn’t reckon that way without knowing more. 
There was sure something queer about that boy. And 
he was a tough, anyway.” Then he smiled, “It’s 
queer, here I bring you word of such wealth coming 
to Beacon as no gold can ever hand it. I’m showing 
you how to get in and help yourself, yet you’re wor¬ 
ried for a bunch of dust that won’t be a circumstance 
in Beacon when we open out.” 

He turned to the girl, who was regarding him so 
earnestly. 

“You know, kid,” he said, “these men who handle 
gold can’t see a thing but gold. They just love it to 
death.” 

He turned again to the banker. 

“I wouldn’t worry with the Aurora bunch, Victor,” 


334 The Saint of the Speedway 

he said. “The oil boom coming is going to clean up 
most things. Maybe they’ll go along with the rest. 
You see, when the government realises the thing 
Beacon can hand them there’ll be no room for white 
shirts and hanging bees.” 

Outside the bank the girl made no further effort to 
restrain the questions that were flooding her mind. 

“Tell me, Ivor,” she cried, the moment they reached 
the sidewalk again. “This man? This Cy Liskard? 
Oh, I remember him. I’m never likely to forget him, 
and the way you smashed him that night for his insult 
to me. Who is he? Why did they hang him? I’ve 
got to know things now. Is he-?” 

“The man who killed your brother Jim. The man 
who murdered and robbed him. Julian Caspar, the 
man who was trading Jim’s gold into that bank.” 

Claire drew a deep breath. They had turned into 
one of the almost undefined side roads, which was 
little better than a track, in order to avoid the crowd 
on the main street. They were making their way in 
the direction of the girl’s home again. McLagan ob¬ 
served her closely. Then a half smile lit his eyes. 

“It’s time you knew things,” he said. Then he 
asked gently, almost anxiously: “What does that just 
mean, kid? Are you worried?” 

Claire looked up. Her gaze was full of trust, full 
of confidence, full of pride in the big creature who 
had laboured so hard to capture her heart. She shook 
her head. 

“No, dear, I’m not worried—now,” she said. Then 
a smile full of radiant love replaced the seriousness 
in her eyes. “Like you. I’ve a hunch for those white- 
robed folk. I sort of feel there’s no harm in them for 



The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 335 

those running straight. There’s no 'hold-up’ in them. 
But I’m wondering. When your folk have got along, 

and you go down country-” 

"We go down country,” the man corrected. 

"When we go down country, how’ll they get on 
without their—Chief Light?” 

McLagan threw back his head in a great, unre¬ 
strained laugh. He suddenly took possession of the 
girl’s arm, and patted the hand that, for the moment, 
rested in his. 

"Guess they’ll need to elect a—new one,” he said. 
"Jubilee?” 

The girl’s eyes were shining with the delight it gave 
her to show this great creature how deeply she had 
penetrated his secret. 

"Maybe,” he said. "I don’t know, and—Psha! 
So long as I’ve got you, kid, I don’t care a dam.” 


THE END 



















, V- 





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AUG 2 0 1924 




























































